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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659993">Sacred and Rust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Risilliance/pseuds/Risilliance'>Risilliance</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Long Way Home [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Mandalorian (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(Din is definitely getting a relationship out of it), Action/Adventure, Banter, Blindfolds, Car Chase, Dialogue Heavy, Din is going to get a friend, Din might even get a relationship out of it, Din needs a friend, Drinking Games, F/M, Found Family, Implied Sexual Content, Platonic Relationships, Sarcasm, Slow Burn, Snark, Soft Din Djarin, Swearing, alcohol mention, and even then it's not a lot so if that's what you're looking for you might be disappointed, come for the bad plot stay for the banter, demisexual relationships, description of past abuse/trauma, drug mention, good communication, idiots in space, idk much about the star wars universe, ignore everything that doesn't make sense, it doesn't start until chapter 10, maybe leading to something more later, non descriptive sexual content, platonic friendship, salty mechanic, space assholes, warmer Din than usual</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:54:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>87,682</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27659993</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Risilliance/pseuds/Risilliance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thanks for the assist," he says, and you let out the breath you were holding.</p><p>"The hell were you thinking, leading them right into town?"</p><p>He doesn't have an answer for you.</p><p>You roll your eyes, motion towards the bar with your head. "Come on, then."<br/>---<br/>idk, just two idiots being assholes to each other in space. Maybe they like each other. Whatever. Figure it out.</p><p>Starts after season 1. Ends before season 2.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Din Djarin &amp; Reader, Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Long Way Home [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2177844</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>439</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Trouble Comes Slow</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It has been literally 3.5 years since I have written anything on this site but hell if I let that stop me.</p><p>Just pretend all of the ship stuff makes sense. Idk. I'm on break and I don't feel like researching any more than I already have been.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He comes into your life and you swear the earth moves.</p><p>The earth is literally moving.</p><p>The ground beneath you is shaking and you're pretty sure it's his fault.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The rattling of the tables and chairs, the clinking of bottles and cups around you is what tips you off that something's wrong.   You've managed to put some distance between you and the ever-present explosions of your past, had almost shaken the idea that fire and smoke was always licking at your heals. But you'd know the feeling anywhere, the aftershocks of a blast on the outskirts of town, enough to weigh heavy on you as it passes through your chest, close enough to turn your stomach, far enough that it doesn't do much else.</p><p>The patrons of your cantina look around at each other, confused, but you've weathered more war than they have, and so you don't hesitate. You take the blaster you hid beneath the bar when you first settled here, swipe off the dust, and pray your aim will be true if you have occasion to use it. You step outside, step into the street, turn your head to the sun, low in the sky, and watch clouds of smoke bloom in the air. A sense of danger hangs over the settlement, and you weigh your instincts to fight against your will to run. And then you see him, that shiny bastard, headed your way on a speeder bike. You wonder what it is he's running from. Another few speeders blur into view, and you take in a sharp breath. It's been a long time since you'd last seen a storm trooper.</p><p>Not long enough.</p><p>The Mandalorian heads towards you at a speed that will make it impossible for him to slow down enough to navigate the twists and turns of the town. You're not sure if he's purposely reckless or if he's too busy trying to return fire to realize the danger he's bringing upon himself and the residents of the town, but you're certain it's bad news either way. The troopers behind him edge closer and closer, near enough now that you can see the details on their stupid helmets and the cloud of dust they kick up on the way. The sound of the chasing speeders shakes you from your frozen state. Your feet move without your permission. You run back to the cantina, stand in the doorway for cover, and hope that somehow this mess will pass you by and leave you out of it.</p><p>Instead, one of the asshats hits the Mandalorian's speeder just right. The engine stalls, the machine slides out from under him, and he's thrown off and over, landing with a hard thud as he bounces and stills from the impact. Right in front of your cantina.</p><p>For a moment, you think that's it for him. Bit the dust, literally.  Then you hear the quiet string of curses as he takes inventory, gingerly stirs much too slowly for your liking.</p><p>Guess it's up to you then.</p><p>There's five bikes, five troopers, but you get lucky early in the fight. Now there are four.</p><p>As one of them falls, the rest speed to the side just before they reach town, out of view, circling and regrouping. A few of them fire in your general direction, but they haven't pinned down your exact position yet, weren't expecting surprise help from a rouge blaster. It gives you enough time to spare a glance at the pile of armor currently trying to collect itself on the dirt road.</p><p>"Hurry up!" you hiss.</p><p>No answer.</p><p>"Hey! Get out of the street!"</p><p>He rises to his feet, obviously in pain, obviously trying to hide it. His helmet finds your face in the doorway of your cantina, then turns slightly to the side of the building behind you, a safe place to shield himself for a moment. He hustles over as you lay down some cover fire. The troops answer your blasts with their own, and the fire fight begins.</p><p>They've dismounted from their bikes, encroaching on foot now, synchronizing their movements much better than the ones you fought against way back when. You search your memories for the weak spots in their armor and aim there as well as you can, but it's been awhile since you've been at this. Four against one isn't a situation you're comfortable with, not when they've pinned your position. You have half a mind to run away, through your cantina and out the back door, but before you can plan out any more than that, you hear a series of blasts behind you.</p><p>"Nice of you to help out," you yell, but you're not sure he hears you.</p><p>With a little less heat on you, you're comfortable taking a micro-second longer to aim your blaster, and that makes all the difference. Number two goes down. The man behind you takes down three and four. The last one is yours, right between the eyes.</p><p>The silence that rings out through the street is deafening, the stillness unsettling. You hold your breath, waiting for something to happen, another explosion, another shake of the earth, another blast aimed at your chest. Instead, your new friend eases out from around the corner of the building, taking in the mess of bodies that litter the street, the dust that still hasn't quite settled, your figure, tense in the doorway, finger still poised around the trigger.</p><p>"Thanks for the assist," he says, and you let out the breath you were holding.</p><p>"The hell were you thinking, leading them right into town?"</p><p>He doesn't have an answer for you.</p><p>You roll your eyes, motion towards the bar with your head. "Come on, then."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You can tell he's not sure what he's doing at the barstool in front of you. He had tried to decline your invitation, but you wouldn't have it. You set out two small glasses, pick up a bottle of something strong, and pour.</p><p>"None for me." he says, and you shake your head.</p><p>"Suit yourself."</p><p>You down one, relishing the burn of it on your throat, the way it calms your nerves almost instantly.</p><p>The bar is empty, tables and chairs overturned by patrons in a rush to live out your plan of running out the back door. In the back of your mind, you think of all the tabs you hadn't settled. Waste of a promising night.</p><p>"Alright, here's the deal," you begin as the warmth settles deep in your stomach. "You're going to tell me what kind of trouble you've brought to my planet, and then you're going to tell me how you're going to get that trouble away from here, and then you're going to do everything you need to in order to make sure that it doesn't come back."</p><p>"Not a fan of the Imps, I take it?" You're a bit taken aback by the dark humor in his voice, the low and deep scoff that accompanies his words, distorted through his helmet.</p><p>"Is anybody?"</p><p>"You'd be surprised."</p><p>You take another shot.</p><p>"They should be out of here as soon as I leave your planet," he says, and it sounds so simple that you know there must be a catch, but you hope for an easy solution anyway.</p><p>"Great. When do you leave?"</p><p>"My ship is…uh…"</p><p>There it is.</p><p>"What's wrong with it?"</p><p>"Electrical trouble. You happen to know of a good technician?"</p><p>You give him a deep sigh, pour another shot, and knock it back.</p><p>"Where's your ship?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The weight of your toolbox is heavy in your hand as the two of you approach the metal structure that slowly materializes out of the haze of the darkening skies. As soon as you can make out the details, your brow furrows. Your skills immediately feel inadequate for the job ahead of you. "Kriff, that thing is old."<br/>
<br/>
"I told you it wouldn't be a simple fix."<br/>
 </p><p>You shrug, the idea of him proving you wrong vaguely upsetting to you. You put on a more confident front instead. "Wires and switches, right? How hard can it be?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Kind of hard, actually. Like, not super terrible, but there's a part you don't have and you're not sure where to find it in any reasonable amount of time. You replace what you can, tighten some bolts, and wedge yourself out of the crawl space to give him a report, realizing as you do that there was no way he would be able to fit down there himself. You don't know him well. You're not really sure if you care to. But from what you can tell, he seems to be one of those independent types who would rather do everything himself. You being here, rooting around in the deep corners of his ship, must have him on edge.</p><p>"Is it the cooling system again?" he asks you as you emerge.</p><p>"No, cooling system is alright--well, not great. It should probably be tuned up soon, but it'll hang in there for a little while."</p><p>"Then what is it this time?"</p><p>"Ion regulator."<br/>
<br/>
"Kriff."<br/>
<br/>
"Yeah."<br/>
<br/>
"Anything you can do?"<br/>
</p><p>"Not really. Not without a new part anyway. And I have no idea where you'd get one of those around here. You'd have to walk halfway around the planet."</p><p>He walks away from you and considers his weapons cabinet for a moment. "Maybe not," he says, low enough that you're sure you weren't supposed to hear him.</p><p>"What do you mean? Got a stockpile of ship parts in your back pocket or something?"</p><p>"Something like that. You've still got your blaster on you?"</p><p>Your thumb traces the weapon holstered on your thigh. "Not going anywhere without it until you're off the planet."</p><p>"Smart," he says, then slings a rifle over his back. "Let's go. And bring your toolbox."</p><p>"Go? Go where?"</p><p>"You'll see when we get there."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It's solidly night by the time he has you stop and sit down. You can see your small village in the distance, twinkling in the dark. You're aware that you're somewhere near where the explosions had sounded off earlier that day, and you have some idea that you're about to scavenge for ship parts. Whether or not a post-imperial ion regulator will fit on a pre-imperial ship, you can't say, but you do get the sense that now is not the time to ask questions. The Mandalorian lies on his stomach, rifle out, and looks through his scope for a good long while. You wonder when he's finally going to take a shot, wonder what sort of fight you're about to let yourself be dragged into, but then he clicks the safety back on and stands.</p><p>"Should be clear, but be careful," he tells you. "Eyes up."</p><p>You nod and follow his lead, make a quiet approach to the earlier wreckage he caused.</p><p>The damage, as you can catalogue it, includes one (1) Assault Hovertank, three (3) more hover bikes, and the guts of what looks like an LAAT patrol gunship. You're not sure exactly what happened that evening, but all logic points to your new friend as the cause for the destruction. You have to say, you're impressed.</p><p>"Stay close. Follow my lead," he orders as you press yourselves against one of the larger pieces of wreckage for cover. "I think I got all of the imps earlier, but I'm not sure. If I put my fist up like this, that means stop, and if I raise my blaster--"</p><p>"Then get ready to shoot. Yeah, yeah, I know. What do you think this is, my first day of school?"</p><p>His helmet looks you up and down, regards you for a second, then concedes. "You ex-rebellion?"</p><p>"Ex-something, sure." You offer. "I know my way around a fire fight."</p><p>"I'm guessing it's been awhile. You really ought to clean your blaster."</p><p>You don't have time to come up with a retort. He moves fast, looking around the edge of your cover and clearing his line of sight before moving on. You're close behind him, ready to provide backup, trying to ignore how familiar this all feels. You have a job to do. You try to focus.</p><p>"See the second half of that gunship over there?" You whisper.</p><p>The back of his helmet tilts in a nod.</p><p>"That's our best bet. Get me over there."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're inside the wreckage soon enough, toolbox out, under the panels and locating the regulator. He stands nearby, blaster ready, but a smidge more relaxed than he was out in the open.</p><p>"So did you really cause all this?" You ask him as you disconnect the wiring. You can't resist.</p><p>"Let's just say it was an eventful afternoon." There's a slight edge to his voice, but you don't think it's directed towards you, so you venture another question.</p><p>"How'd you take out the Hovertank? Those things <em>suck</em>."</p><p>You think you hear a quiet laugh. "We'll call that one sheer dumb luck. Almost done in there?"</p><p>"Yeah, just a--ouch!" You snagged a finger on a bolt, hands a bit clumsier with the cold of the night. "Just a sec, I'll be out soon. Got another question though."</p><p>You take his silence as an invitation to continue.</p><p>"You’re a bounty hunter, right? What are you doing mixed up in all of this Imperial nonsense?" The regulator slides free, and you climb your way out of the crawl space. He offers you a hand this time, and you take it.</p><p>"How about you tell me what an ex-something with clear military training and technician specialties is doing serving drinks on a planet like this?" He counters, which, yeah, fair enough.</p><p>"Alright, never mind."</p><p>His helmet looks down at the part in your hands. "That gonna work on the Crest?"</p><p>You shrug. "Only one way to find out, but after taking a look at it I'm more optimistic than I was before."</p><p>"Great. Let's move."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You spend the better part of the night walking back to the Razor Crest and attaching the part to the ship. Twice, you had told him to fire up the engines to no avail. After a bit more finagling, you yell up to him to try again. A moment passes and nothing happens, and you think you're officially out of ideas, but then the ship comes to life.</p><p>You tighten the bolts and pack up your tools before disentangling yourself from the wires for a final time. "How does it feel?" You call up to him.</p><p>He doesn't answer, so you climb up the ladder to join him in the cockpit. "Everything working okay?"</p><p>The ship hums agreeably as the Mandalorian flicks a few switches. He nods, more to himself than to you, it seems, then turns and tosses you a bag of credits.</p><p>"Thanks for the assist. Again."</p><p>You weigh the payment in your hand, think about refusing it, then decide not to. Compensation for a night of bad business and lost sleep. Well earned, you decide.</p><p>"Where you off to now?" You ask before you can stop the words coming out of your mouth.</p><p>That stoic and unchanging visor of his gives nothing away when he says, "off to find more trouble." He turns his full attention back to the control board.</p><p>"Listen, don't go more than a few jumps without finding a proper replacement for that regulator. It'll hold for now, but not much longer than that."<br/>
<br/>
"Understood."<br/>
<br/>
"And your irrigation system is shot too, so don't go starting any fires on board."</p><p>He nods, and you imagine him adding up the numbers behind his helmet. At a certain point, it'll cost less to buy a new ship than replace everything that's worn on this one, but that's not your problem.</p><p>You think that's it for now, end of conversation with this strange shiny visitor who is certainly more trouble than he's worth. You turn to descend the ladder, but he stops you with another question.</p><p>"Can I drop you closer to town? I'd hate to make you walk that far twice in one night."</p><p>You're surprisingly touched by his care and concern, but you get the feeling he's had enough of this planet, and you've certainly had enough of his rust bucket ship.</p><p>"Thanks, but I'm good. I don't mind the walk," you say.</p><p>He turns and gives you a good long look, posture unreadable, expression doubly so. "Keep an eye out for any more troopers," he replies. "No one else should arrive looking for me, but can't guarantee there aren't some stragglers we stranded here."</p><p>"I'll keep my blaster at the ready," you promise.</p><p>He nods at the gun at your hip. "And clean that thing up, will you? Won't do you any good if the trigger sticks."</p><p>"Got it," you say, and then move to take the first step down the ladder.</p><p>"One more thing," comes his voice, and you get the faint idea that he doesn't want you to leave. "Don't let anyone know you helped me. Wouldn't want any more trouble to come your way."</p><p>"More trouble than tonight?" you joke, then nod reassuringly. "Trust me, I have better war stories to tell than the night a lone Mandalorian dragged me all over the planet because he couldn't fit into his ship's crawl space on his own."</p><p>You think that gets another laugh out of him.</p><p>"Safe journey home," he says.</p><p>"Yeah, you too. Force be with you or whatever."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're barely off the exit ramp when the door groans and closes up again, and you haven't put much distance between you before the ship rises in the air and speeds off to the stars. For a second, there's a pang of longing in your heart, nostalgic of adventure and hyperspace, but in the next moment it's gone. You had left that part of your life behind you a long time ago. No need to go digging it up again just because you helped out a wrong-place-wrong time visitor.</p><p>The cantina is still lonely and empty when you return, but the bar is stocked, the room is warm, and the town is safe as can be. <em>This is enough</em>, you think to yourself. You try to believe the lie.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Considered Worth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Look, the kid's cute and all, but this is a business, not a daycare."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Please ignore how grumpy reader is, and subsequently, how grumpy author is.</p>
<p>I have such a case of cabin fever, you guys.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's a quiet night, but that's what you wanted. That's why you're here.</p>
<p>A few regulars are scattered among your tables, keeping you in business. Below the bar, hidden, is your blaster, oiled and clean, a chore you do so often now that you're sure you're wearing away the metal of the barrel.</p>
<p>It's been a few months since the Razor Crest faded into the night's sky. There hasn't been any trouble since. You think it's for the best. You've worked hard to wax away the scorch marks of wayward blasts on the exterior of the building, did your best to convince your regulars it was safe to come back. Things are better now. </p>
<p>The pouch of credits he paid you for your work was a help. You hadn't realized it when you accepted the payment, but the amount he gave you was almost too generous, more than what a night of tinkering was worth. You shouldn't have accepted all of it. He had paid you for more than just your mechanical skills. He had paid you for your skill with a blaster. He had paid you for saving his life. He had paid you for work you didn't want to get paid for anymore.</p>
<p>
  <em>How much was the price of safety?</em>
</p>
<p>Still, the credits were useful in paying off the debt you had taken out to buy this place. He had bought you a month or two of not worrying so much about keeping the lights on. It was nice to not have to worry so much. You could get used to this. You could make this your life. You could learn to be satisfied.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>You're on day three of squashing down any wayward desire for more in your life when you turn around and find that shiny suit of his at your bar. You almost jump from the shock of it. "You again." Something inside of you somersaults. You're not sure how to feel about his sudden appearance.</p>
<p>"Nice to see you too," he says through the helmet, more levity in his voice since the last time you two had spoken.</p>
<p>"No Imps on your tail this time, I hope?"</p>
<p>"Not that I know of. </p>
<p>You relax a bit. "What brings you back here? Ship giving you more trouble?"</p>
<p>"Always," he says, "but I was actually hoping for a bowl of broth."</p>
<p>"Yeah, sure thing…to-go, right? Since…you all…can't eat in public?" You gesture clumsily at his get-up, unsure how to navigate this social situation. You hope you hadn't just said anything offensive.</p>
<p>He graciously ignores your blunder. "It's for the little one." He tips his helmet to the empty seat next to him, and the confusion must be visible on your face. There's no one there. "Hang on, he needs some help."</p>
<p>You step closer and peer over the bar in time to find a little green gremlin hoisting himself up on a barstool that was comedically too tall for him. His much larger companion wraps two gloved hands around his middle and lifts him up to sit on the bar.</p>
<p>You drop your face even closer to the wrinkled little thing. Big eyes peer up at you, and a set of inappropriately large ears twitch in your direction.</p>
<p>"Sacred stars," you say softly, almost forgetting yourself for a moment. "That thing is kirffing adorable." You look into his eyes for another moment before standing up straight again and addressing the Mandalorian. "That little bugger wasn't with you last time you were here, right? I would have remembered something that cute."</p>
<p>"I picked him up a little while after I last left this place. It's kind of a long story."</p>
<p>You nod in understanding. Long stories seemed to be a currency neither of you knew how to exchange.</p>
<p>You tell him you'll be right back and leave to get his order. When you return, the kid is still on the bar, eyes darting all around as he takes in the dingy scenery. If he were anyone else, you'd tell him he couldn't sit there. But how could you be so mean to something so tiny and adorable?</p>
<p>You set the bowl in front of the kid. The Mandalorian moves to put some credits down in payment, but you shake your head. "On the house."</p>
<p>"Thank you. That's very kind."</p>
<p>You shrug. "Just paying it forward, I guess. I hear the technician that replaced your ion converter seriously ripped you off. By the way, you get around to changing that thing out yet?"</p>
<p>There's an awkward pause that you are certain means no. When he finally does reply, he dodges the question entirely. "You get around to cleaning your blaster?"</p>
<p>You smirk at that, consider bringing it out to show him, but then think better of any move that might be interpreted to look like you drawing your weapon on someone as dangerous as him. Instead, you say, "More often than you clean those boots of yours, I'm sure."</p>
<p>"What?" He says, then looks down. "I just--oh…" his gaze follows his path into the cantina, looking at the dusty footprints he left behind. "Sorry."</p>
<p>You laugh. You realize, very suddenly, that you're actually happy to see him again despite his tendency to leave you with a mess to clean up. "Wipe your feet at the door next time and we'll call it even."</p>
<p>"Speaking of calling it even, I have a favor to ask."</p>
<p>You run some mental calculations in your head. "Pretty sure we're long past even if you're asking me for something else."</p>
<p>"Fine. I'll owe you one. I need you to watch the kid while I take care of some work nearby."</p>
<p>You frown for multiple reasons. You pick the easiest one to complain about and go from there. "Look, the kid's cute and all, but this is a business, not a daycare."</p>
<p>The Mandalorian makes a big show of scanning his surroundings, looking at the very few occupied tables in the room. When he turns back to face you, he says, "I can see that you're very busy."</p>
<p>Arrogant little shit.</p>
<p><em>Sure, insult my business. Great way of getting me to help you,</em> you want to say, but the cute and nonsensical laughs from the child cut you off. Someone, apparently, thought his caretaker was very funny.</p>
<p>You raise an eyebrow at your reflection in his helmet. "You train him to do that?"</p>
<p>"No," he says flatly. "Kid's just got good instincts. Well, most of the time. Listen, he won't be any trouble. Right, kid? You won't be any trouble?"</p>
<p>You both look back to the little bug, who uses the attention to show how good he is at lifting his bowl of broth to his mouth and taking a polite sip from its contents. It's so perfect that it has to have been rehearsed.</p>
<p>You sigh, knowing that there's only one way this conversation is going to go. "Fine, fine. I'll watch him. But whatever work you're taking care of, leave it far away from my bar.</p>
<p>He nods. "You have my word. I'll be back by nightfall."</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>You maybe should have specified how far away you wanted his work to stay. If you listen carefully enough, you're certain you can hear the sound of gunfire in the distance. Night had descended long ago, and as the moon creeps across the sky, you become unsure whether your new friend would be coming back at all.</p>
<p>"It would be just like him to die before I can collect on the favor," you say to the bundle of absolute delight in your arms. Of course, you would much rather him come back alive for other reasons. You were in no way ready to be stuck raising this green little button full time. "You think he'll be back soon?"</p>
<p>The kid either doesn't know or doesn't care to know. The sound of the blasters seems to be lulling him to sleep, and it raises a lot of problems for you. For one thing, he seems far too comfortable with the sound of danger for someone so young. For another, the sounds are drawing closer, and it's got you on edge. You had strapped your blaster to your hip hours ago, but it increasingly feels like it won't be enough. </p>
<p>"I can't believe I let myself get roped into this again," you whispered to yourself. The bar is empty, and it's long past closing time. </p>
<p>It happens suddenly, the silence that envelopes the area, the shooting stopping all at once. There's a 50/50 chance that your babysitting client got out okay, would be here any moment, but also a 50/50 chance that you might not see him again in any meaningful (RE: alive) capacity. The anticipation of a hopeful presence at your door kicks your heartrate up, and you hold the kid even closer to your chest as you wait to find out his fate.</p>
<p>You hear the sound of heavy boots walking down the street, closer to your door, and almost let your guard down. Then you hear another pair of footsteps, or maybe two or three, and your stomach sinks. From the far window of the building, you can see across the street as the owners of the boots materialize. The Mandalorian is nowhere in sight, but three armored thugs are heading towards you fast. You can see one of them pointing at you through the window, see another one lift his blaster in your direction, and duck just in time for the first shots to ring through the cantina.</p>
<p>Liquid and glass from the bottles that line the wall above rain down on you as your crawl your way to the open end of the bar, away from your front door. Maybe now, if you had enough time, if you thought you could make it, maybe now was your chance to slip out the back like you had wanted to all those months ago, an action that would have surely saved you from the chaos at your door.</p>
<p>You've lost your chance though. Danger has come knocking, and it won't wait for you to answer.</p>
<p>"Here, pretty girl." Says a voice that shoots ice through your veins. "Where did you go off to?"</p>
<p>You start strategizing, think about how many shots you'd have to fire to cover you until you can get to the back, but then another set of footsteps rings through the cantina, and you know your latest exit plan has been dashed. "We're not here for you. Just give us the kid and we'll be on our way."</p>
<p>You look down at the wrinkled sack of sweetness in your arms and immediately know that this is not an option.</p>
<p>You slowly peak your head around the corner, trying to find another escape route, maybe through the doors to the kitchen and out a window, or the trash chute, but that's when a third pair of footsteps comes into view, a third voice says, "Gotcha."</p>
<p>You duck back behind the edge of the bar as the fire reigns down on you. The shots last for a few seconds, then stop. The noise has woken the child. He starts to whimper, and you don't have it in you to shush him. </p>
<p>"Come on, dear, this doesn't have to be hard. Give us the child and you'll never have to see us again."</p>
<p>You meet them with silence and subsequently wear out their patience. You hear one of them shuffle, take something out of his pockets.</p>
<p>"Alright, girl, no more fun and games. You've got five seconds before I roll this grenade your way. Give us the kid and you won't get blown to bits"</p>
<p>Your blaster is at the ready, but you're frozen in place, trying to calculate the right move.</p>
<p>"Five. "</p>
<p>A plan. You need a plan.</p>
<p>"Four."</p>
<p>There's a click. The grenade has been activated.</p>
<p>"Three."</p>
<p>Almost there. You've almost got it.</p>
<p>"Two."</p>
<p>The explosive rolls across the floor, meeting you at the open end of the bar, stopping just far enough away, just where you need it.</p>
<p>"One."</p>
<p>There it is.</p>
<p>Your training takes over. One arm securing the child to your chest, one hand clutching your blaster, you dart towards the grenade, vulnerable but ready. With a swift, well placed kick, you launch the explosive towards the back door while aiming your blaster at the kitchen. He fires first, but misses. You fire next and miss too, but the explosion in at the back startles him enough to put his guard down. You dodge the shots from the one at your front door while you fire once more and send the kitchen goon to his next life.</p>
<p>You move low and quick to get a better angle against the front entrance to your once-peaceful establishment, but by the time it pans into your line of sight, the thug is gone. You listen hard for footsteps, breathing, and you think you locate him around the bend of the bar. </p>
<p>"You want to get singed too, or would you rather call a truce?" You call out, hoping his answer will help you pin his location.</p>
<p> "I think I'd rather take you both in. I'm sure I can find a buyer for a pretty thing like you."</p>
<p><em>Gross</em>, you think.</p>
<p>Lucky for you, the words of his terribly unrealistic plans cover the sound of your quick and quiet footsteps behind the bar while confirming your suspicions of his whereabouts. You don't think. You just act, climbing up to land your feet on the bar in one swift leap, crouching for stability, one knee down on the bar top, peering over the edge and aiming your blaster in graceful, final movement.</p>
<p>He realizes what is going on a second too late, raises his blaster to protect himself, but you get the final word. He drops to the floor, and soon the world comes back to you, the sound of your rapid breathing, the sniffles of the kid, the way he fidgets against you as if you're holding him too tight. You loosen your grip a little, jump down from the bar, and try to slow the pace of your pulse.</p>
<p>Then you hear it, more footsteps, this time running fast, urgent, growing louder, heading, like all the others, for you. You spin to the front door, body angled to protect the kid as much as possible, blaster ready to fire.</p>
<p>Your eyes meet the figure of the Mandalorian, stance mirroring yours, chest heaving with exertion, blaster pointed at you. He stands down half a second later.</p>
<p>"It's me. Hey. It's me."</p>
<p>The words take a second to reach your brain, but as soon as they do, you ease your stance. In your arms, the little one reaches out to his caretaker.</p>
<p>"What the hell took you so long?" It comes out weak, less confident than you wanted, wavering as you keep trying to catch your breath.</p>
<p>He almost seems to deflate in your doorway, as if all the fight has left him, adrenaline waning at its first opportunity. He sighs, looks down, kicks the dust off his boots, then looks back up at you again. It's absurd, the action he takes to not track dirt into your cantina, despite the death he has already let inside. He moves slowly to take the child from you as if trying to make himself nonthreatening, as if he can still see the ferocity you are capable of in the way your eyes narrow at his every move. You're afraid. You're capable. That makes you dangerous. "I ran into some trouble."</p>
<p>You laugh at that, but it's joyless. "I think, more accurately, trouble ran into me."</p>
<p>Child secure in his arms, he takes a moment to look around at your handiwork.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," he says, and you can almost trick yourself into believing he means it. "The job was a set-up. I should have known."</p>
<p>"That's twice now that you've led a blaster fight into my bar."</p>
<p>"Technically, the first one happened outside."</p>
<p>You would shoot him if you hadn't already flicked the safety on and holstered your weapon.</p>
<p>The man in beskar moves as if to walk out the door, but stalls at the entrance, looking up and down the street before retreating back inside.</p>
<p>"I think that was everyone. I--I should head back to my ship." Contrary to his words, he nearly collapses into a seat at the closest table instead, and you realize with a start how exhausted he must be. As the shock of the night starts to wear off and the adrenaline settles, you realize you're exhausted too.</p>
<p>You jump back up onto the bar and swing your legs over the other side, mindful of the broken glass and slippery floor as you land. You find a bottle that was spared by the blasters, something cheap but fitting, and pour a glass. You raise it in his direction, an offering, but he shakes his head. More for you.</p>
<p>"So am I allowed to ask what the hell all of that was?"</p>
<p>The helmet seems to stare into space, or maybe at one of the bodies leaking onto your floor. "Probably better if you don't."</p>
<p>You accept the answer, but only because you're tired, only because you believe he might be right.</p>
<p>He's turned his attention back to the kid, trying to quiet him down, while you turn your attention back to your drink, trying to quiet your mind. You're not sure how much time passes before one of you speaks again.</p>
<p>"Thanks for protecting him. It was more than what I asked you to do."</p>
<p>You pour yourself a second, generous glass and move to take a seat by him at the table, bringing along the bottle. "Yeah, well, you owe me one. Maybe two."</p>
<p>Your words hang heavy in the air for awhile. You think that's the end of the conversation, and you're content to sip your glass in silence until you drain the rest of the bottle, but an offer comes first.</p>
<p>"How about a job?"</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"I could use another pair of eyes. He's more of a handful than I let on earlier."</p>
<p>"You want me to tag along with you?"</p>
<p>"Look, it's clear you have a certain kind of skillset. If you're happy here, forget it. But if you ever want to warm your blaster up again, I've got a spot on my ship for you."</p>
<p>You consider the proposition, take in your surroundings. From here, it's easier to see the scorch marks that line your walls, the explosion that charred your back door, the sheer amount of bodily fluids splattered on tables and chairs that meant this place was certainly not up to health code anymore. And then you think about what waits for you out there, more of the violence, the terror, the split second life-or-death decisions. It's not your place anymore.</p>
<p>"I appreciate it, but I came all the way out here to get away from all of that." The declination weighs heavy on you, but you know staying here is the right choice, has to be. </p>
<p>"Understood. I guess I should be going then." Slowly, he moves to stand, and as he does, he nods to the general destruction that surrounds you both. "Sorry about…all of this."</p>
<p>You shrug and take another sip of your drink. "That's what insurance is for, right?"</p>
<p>He leaves another pouch of credits on the table. "Still, take this for the trouble." This time, you don't even entertain the idea of refusing it.</p>
<p>Instead, you ask for something else. "So what do I call you, anyway? I should probably know the name of the guy who keeps trying to blow my village up."</p>
<p>"Don't you think you're exaggerating a bit?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>He bounces the child in his arms, visor pointed at him instead of you when he answers. "Friends call me Mando. What about you?"</p>
<p>You answer with your name. He nods, then asks, "You're sure you want to stay here?"</p>
<p>You counter, "You're sure you want to go back out there?"</p>
<p>"Fair enough. I better get this one to bed. Until next time."</p>
<p>"Yeah, well, just don't wait so long to come back and visit. If you're going to ruin my cantina every time you're here, I'd rather not go to the effort of fixing it up back to new." The drink in your hand has pulled some dry humor out of you and you're not sorry about it.</p>
<p>He gives you one final tilt of the helmet, and just like that he's gone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You watch from the window as his ship launches into space. You swear you can see the engine stutter a bit. He needs to replace that damn regulator.</p>
<p>This time, as you watch him go, the longing in your heart is replaced with something like envy, and you wish you knew what it felt like to be able to walk away from something like this, something that masquerades as safety even as the loneliness closes in around you.</p>
<p><em>This is enough,</em> you tell yourself, but you don't bother trying to believe in your lies.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Fire Exit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>So there you were, trying to calculate your odds of getting out of a 4-to-1 close range shootout unscathed when a shadow crept in from the doorway, a suit of beskar casting an imposing presence on the scene in your cantina. And the first thing out of your mouth?</p>
<p>"We have got to stop meeting like this."</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"We have got to stop meeting like this."</p>
<p>That is what you say to the stoic and deadly Mandalorian currently standing in your doorway and aiming a blaster at your patrons.</p>
<p>To be fair, four of your patrons were aiming blasters at you, and so in this case, you might actually be thankful for his sudden and violent appearance.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>How did you get yourself into this situation? You don't really know. Another few moons had passed since you had last seen the Mandalorian on your planet--or at least, in your bar. All was calm. All was peaceful. And then, just this afternoon, a handful of new faces showed up. Newcomers weren't unheard of, and especially not in the local cantina. This town, beaten down as it was, was still a convenient fuel stop for those headed from one end of the system to the other. But something didn't sit right when it came to this bunch, not in the way they glared at you even after they were served, not in the way their eyes scanned room, the way their postures never relaxed, hands never straying too far from their blasters. And so, yeah, it's fair to say you weren't too terribly surprised when one of them drew a weapon on you and started asking questions.</p>
<p>But you'd be lying if you said you weren't over it.</p>
<p>The guy was either a rookie or had seriously underestimated you. Sure, you were out on the floor, away from the protection of the bar, the blaster hidden under the counter, but he was standing awfully close, invading your personal space when he asked you, "Alright, girl, where's the Mandalorian."</p>
<p>And you said, "I though you called me over here to order another drink. What's the matter, not thirsty anymore?"</p>
<p>And he said, "I don't have time for this. Tell me where he took the kid." And then he poked you--yes, he <em>poked you</em>--in the side with the business end of his blaster. And that was absolutely it for your patience.</p>
<p>One swift grab of his arm and sharp kick to his chest later, and he was scrambling off the floor while you situated his blaster in your grip. You aimed it at him while his pack of grouchy goons around the table all rose simultaneously, blasters aimed at you in turn.</p>
<p>So there you were, trying to calculate your odds of getting out of a 4-to-1 close range shootout unscathed when a shadow crept in from the doorway, a suit of beskar casting an imposing presence on the scene in your cantina. And the first thing out of your mouth?</p>
<p>"We have got to stop meeting like this."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's not the most brilliant thing you've ever said. You are, in all actuality, very glad to even potentially have an ally that might get you out of this jam, even if it's very likely that the Mandalorian was the one to get you into this sticky situation in the first place, as usual. Maybe this wasn't the way that you want to keep meeting him, but if this is going to happen regardless, he might as well tag along, if only to see if he can break his former record of the amount of blood that winds up on your floor whenever he rolls into town.</p>
<p>If there is one good thing about your greeting to him, it's that the attention of the four goons around the table is momentarily off of you as the entirety of the cantina looks his way to see him wipe his feet at the door while his hand hovers over his holster. If you had blinked, you would have missed the way he didn't even hesitate for a second, unholstering his weapon and aiming it at the dangerous party around you as all of them moved their line of sight towards him. In the span of a panicked breath, two were down for the count, but the one nearest to you did not want to join them.</p>
<p>A heartbeat later, you stumble backwards, trying to keep your footing as you are yanked away, as an arm snakes around your neck and the cool metal of a blaster kisses the side of your head.</p>
<p>"Hey now," says the man who is now holding you hostage. "You don't want her to get hurt, right? That's why you came all the way back here. We don't care about her. You lay down your weapons, she gets to go home safe and sound."</p>
<p>The Mandalorian falters for half a second, and you can almost see him trying to strategize a way out of this, but it isn't needed. You can take care of this one yourself.</p>
<p>What kind of moron takes a hostage who's still carrying a weapon, anyway?</p>
<p>Three movements, executed at the same time. One hand aims and fires a blaster at his foot, while another hand makes a calculated swipe at the blaster by your head. Meanwhile, your body twists away from the barrel of the blaster as much as it can. Combined, your movements mean that the man behind you pulls the trigger of the blaster as he howls in pain, and even as the bolt fires, you feel the heat of it inches from your face. It misses, but you don't waste time feeling thankful. You free yourself from his hold and launch yourself up and over the bar top, then down behind it, safe for a moment.</p>
<p>The Mandalorian, for his part, seems ready for your actions, or is, at the very least, good at improvising. As soon as you're clear, he fires twice. Both shots hit the man in the chest. He doesn't get up.</p>
<p>While you had arranged for your own extraction, the others turned their fire to the man in the doorway. Two left, by your count, the one that was lucky enough to stay standing this far into the fight, and the one you had knocked down earlier by way of grad theft blaster. They fire, and your shiny friend takes cover, crouching on the other side of the door. They've forgotten about you, it seems, a terrible mistake, and as soon as you resurface from your cover, you know it's the last one they'll make. A few more shots, quick, clean, to the point, and today's exciting interlude is done and over with.</p>
<p>The blaster feels foreign in your hand as the world catches up with you. You flick the safety on and toss it aside unceremoniously, feeling under the counter for your own blaster instead. You set it this one on the counter too, much closer out of an abundance of caution, and don't even think as your hands find the nearest glass and bottle and pour out a drink.</p>
<p>"What the hell was all of this about?"</p>
<p>The Cantina is empty, again, as all of your patrons had fled through the back door, again, as was, at this point, tradition. As he walks in, your bar's shiniest off-world visitor scans the overturned tables and chairs, the bodies on the floor, and takes a seat at the bar in front of you like he belongs there.</p>
<p>"You assume I know?"</p>
<p>"I'm assuming it's you're fault."</p>
<p>"A little harsh, don't you think?"</p>
<p>You raise an eyebrow at him. "Am I wrong?"</p>
<p>He makes an awkward movement with his shoulders, like he's trying to shrug under the weight of everything he carries on his back. "No."</p>
<p>"I'd offer you a drink, but I'm not sure I have it in me to open a tab."</p>
<p>He doesn't reply, and you use the pause in conversation to knock back a shot.</p>
<p>"So are you gonna make me ask again?"</p>
<p>"Are you sure you want to know?"</p>
<p>You pour another. "Try me."</p>
<p>"Did you open a cantina just so you could drink as much as you want?"</p>
<p>"Did you crash on my planet, not once, but three times, just so you could criticize my drinking habits after a stressful event?"</p>
<p>"Just saying you might want to pace yourself. More trouble might be on the way."</p>
<p>"More? Than you?" You knock back the second shot, pour another.</p>
<p>"Listen, some…unsavory factions caught wind of the fact that you've been helping me out from time to time. I found out and stopped by to let you know."</p>
<p>"So those guys weren't guild?"</p>
<p>"No, they were."</p>
<p>"Isn't it against some sort of code for you all to go after each other like this?" You gesture aimlessly to the mess in your bar.</p>
<p>"It's complicated right now. Look, I can't stay long. I just stopped by to let you know that you ought to watch your back."</p>
<p>"That sounds vague and unsettling."</p>
<p>"Just keep an eye out. If more trouble comes, I'm sure you'll be able to handle it."</p>
<p>"Yeah, 'cause the four guys bleeding out on my floor were so easy to take care of."</p>
<p>"Maybe next time you'll--wait…four?"</p>
<p>You don't know how you missed it. Maybe it was the booze. Maybe distracting yourself behind the bar was the wrong move on an afternoon like this one. Maybe it doesn't matter anymore.</p>
<p>You both turn to the doorway, to the trail of blood leading to the man standing in it, hurt but lucky, holding something in his hand. It's not a blaster. He says something pithy, something like "see you in the next life," before the item in his hand beeps, and the explosive he is holding activates. You think, dumbly, to yourself, <em>that's an expensive one</em>, as the Mandalorian jumps out of his seat and you both raise your blasters towards the front door. It doesn't matter. The man throws the explosive your way. You don't even have time to take cover.</p>
<p>You almost relish it, the feeling of being knocked off your feet, the heat of the flames licking at your skin before the pain of the burn comes, the weightlessness of resting midair for a moment, as if you are flying, as if you are in control, while a nagging thought in the back of your mind asks, <em>what happens when you land? What happens when you blackout? What happens if you don't wake up?</em></p>
<p>Your body moves faster than the rest of the world for a moment. And then, nothing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Your senses come back slowly. There's the ringing in your ears, all consuming. There's the taste of blood in your mouth, unwelcome iron. There's the tensing of your body as you wait for the pain, and then there's the pain itself, radiating from your head, your side. </p>
<p>
  <em>This sucks.</em>
</p>
<p>When your vision comes back, you have to blink away the brightness of the fire, the irritation of the smoke. It's hot. It's hard to breathe. It hurts. You have to get up. It hurts. You get up anyway. Your movements are slow, uncoordinated, sparking with pain. There's broken glass all around you, undiscovered until you brace yourself against the floor, until it slices into your exposed skin. It hurts. It doesn't matter. Get up anyway.</p>
<p>You have one knee on the ground, one foot trying to push you off and up, and that's when you feel a hand on your arm, another on your shoulder. They're rough. They're urgent. You turn to the body they belong too, the shiny metal that bounces the light of the fire back into your face, makes it harder to see. The helmet stares at you, unexpressive, and you stare back dumbly until you realize he must be trying to talk to you, but you can't hear. It doesn't matter. He slings one of your arms around his shoulders, winds the other around your body, and helps you up. It hurts. It doesn't matter. You get up anyway.</p>
<p>You move with him. He is half dragging you at this point, but occasionally you're able to get your feet under you, move with him. It's an obstacle course. You don't know how long you were out, but it was long enough for the flames to climb walls, to bring down sections of the ceiling, wooden beams, important ones, structural ones, collapsing, trying to take you with them. He tries to move you around them, tries to bring you with him to the front door, and you scream at him, no, no, but he can't hear you, and you can't hear you either. You dig your heels in and it hurts but you do it anyway. You shake his shoulder and it hurts but you do it anyway. You try to yell, the back door, but you can't, you can't hear yourself, so you point instead, and he nods, and you change direction, and you almost cry with relief that something, somehow, is working in your favor. Your lungs and the smoke inside of them burn. Your arm and the hot metal of the armor it is pressed against burns. Your eyes are watery and you can't see, but you can feel gasps of the cool outside air, and you know you are close, that this is the right way. The building groans and creaks, the flames drape the walls like curtains, but if you squint enough you think you can see sand, sky, the way outside, so you keep going, keep moving with him.</p>
<p>Outside is your goal, and as soon as you make it, one foot out the door, your legs quit. He drags you the rest of the way, heels leaving little trenches behind you, but you're so enamored by the blue of the sky where once there was only dark smoke above you, and so it barely registers. You've never before realized how precious the air around you is, unassuming, unoppressive, easy.</p>
<p>But it's still not easy to breathe. You're still coughing up smoke, still relearning inhale and exhale, insides screaming from the effort. It hurts. You think you've messed up your ribs, maybe bruised them, maybe cracked, and it hurts, but it's manageable. You turn yourself over in the sand, stare at each grain as you cough, as you breathe, watch drops of blood dot the ground as they drip from somewhere in your hair. That's a concussion, definitely. </p>
<p>There's still a ringing, but it's lessened now. You can hear his voice telling you something, repeating the same thing over and over, something obvious, something you're already telling yourself, what is it, what is he saying, breathe, breathe, breathe.</p>
<p>"Got any advice that's actually useful?" you choke out unintelligibly, and the world comes back to you, the feeling of each grain of sand in the cuts on your hands, the way the sun beats down on the burns that run up and down your arms.</p>
<p>"Keep breathing. In and out. Breathe."</p>
<p>"I thought I'd try suffocating for a change," you cough. "Breathing is so overrated." It's a bad joke, but you can't think of anything better right now.</p>
<p>You finally locate his voice, place him on his knees, beside you, hand on your back as if to ground you both. "Thank Maker," he says, and with those words, he allows himself to fall back slightly, lying on his side on the sand as you continue to hack and cough, energy spent.</p>
<p>"Who are we thanking and why?"</p>
<p>"If you're okay enough to throw out some snarky one-liners, it can't be that bad at all." He exhales, fully collapsing on the ground. </p>
<p>You gracelessly cough until you can't anymore, until your throat is raw. Your body is entirely sore, it hurts, but it’s not as bad as it was in the burning building. You roll onto your back again, head in the sand for a moment until your realize the figure beside you is looking at something. You prop yourself up on your elbows and your ribs protest, but the pain is familiar, unserious, and you're no less stubborn than you were before your bar almost collapsed on top of you. You follow the helmet's gaze to the wreckage of your cantina, to the handful of irrigation droids trying hopelessly to put out a fire that is much to big for their capabilities. The second floor has almost entirely collapsed into the first, and you know that the local cantina will be entirely lost to the fire.</p>
<p>"At least I don't have to mop the floors today," you say, and it comes out somewhere between bitter and comical.</p>
<p>"You okay?"</p>
<p>You don't know how to answer that. You hadn't expected the question, but it's an obvious one, and it demands an answer. "Concussion. Ribs are at least bruised. A couple burns. Non-life threatening. I'll be fine. You?"</p>
<p>"Spoken like a soldier."</p>
<p>"Dodging the question. Typical Mandalorian."</p>
<p>"I'm fine. Armor absorbed most of the blast, and the helmet filtered out most of the smoke."</p>
<p>"I guess that thing has it's uses."</p>
<p>"I guess it does. Is there a medic or something nearby I can take you to?"</p>
<p>"Nah, the town doctor doesn't have much more than bandages and lollipops."</p>
<p>"Then can I help you get home?"</p>
<p>You laugh at that.</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"I lived upstairs."</p>
<p>As if waiting for these words, a final section of the upper level caves in.</p>
<p>"Oh."</p>
<p>"Yeah."</p>
<p>"This is awkward."</p>
<p>"Uh-huh."</p>
<p>You watch the fire burn for a while longer, unsure what to do, where to go. You're entire livelihood had literally blown and had nearly taken you with it. Clearly, the little patch of planet you had claimed as your own wasn't as safe as you thought was.</p>
<p>"Hey, Mando."</p>
<p>"What?"</p>
<p>"Do you believe that the universe can send you signs?"</p>
<p>"No."</p>
<p>"Me neither. Still have room aboard your ship?"</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later, while you limp your way to the Razor Crest, while he is gracious enough to walk at your pace, slow though it may be, you thank him for saving your life.</p>
<p>Later, while he scans the horizon for signs of trouble, while he welcomes you aboard with nothing but the clothes on your back to call your own, he tells you not to mention it. He owed you one.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Fix the Busted Bits</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You have incredible foresight.</p><p>By that, you mean that you were right. Right right right.</p><p>You don't gloat though. That would be unbecoming of a new hire. So you don't gloat. Don’t rub it in his face.</p><p>Much.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"You still do."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Owe me one. Babysitting the kid was worth two. So you still owe me another one."</p><p>"How about you raid my med kit and we'll call it even."</p><p>"Med kit and pantry. I'm hungry. AND I get first dibs on whatever booze you have on board. I'm not sure if you know this, but it's been a hell of a day."</p><p>He gives you something like a comical sigh, a laugh not fully realized, and shakes his head. "Sure, whatever you want." He points out a storage locker where the med kit can be found, then disappears up the ladder and into the cockpit. "Wings up in ten," he tells you, and the familiarity of it all is enough to send a searing stab through your stomach. Maybe you could admit to yourself that, one day, you knew you would come back to this life. You just hadn't thought it would be so soon.</p><p> </p><p>"You’re out of bacta patches," you tell him as you climb up the ladder. Your ribs protest, but not as much as before, and you can feel the magic medicine working the tension, the pain, out of the burns on your body. "Got plenty of ration bars, though." The Mandalorian glances back just in time to see you take a bite out of the bar in your hand, graceful as ever. </p><p>"Thanks for the update," he says flatly. "Strap in." You wonder if the edge in his voice is from annoyance or exhaustion. You decide to make sure, either way. Better clear the air now than spend who knows how long stuck in a ship with someone who's slowly understanding the mess he's got himself into and resenting you for it.</p><p>"Hey, look, if you're having second thoughts about taking me on, just say the word, I'll figure something else out. No hard feelings."</p><p>He sighs, more frustrated than anything, and you brace yourself, making a mental note to take an extra ration bar or two with you on your way out. Luckily, your exit plans stop there, as his next words reassure you that you don't need it. "I wouldn't have invited you on board if I didn't mean it," he says, "It's just….funding isn't really liquid right now. You could say my assets are a bit frozen."</p><p>"Oh. Well, yeah, sure, that makes sense. I had some credits in my pockets when my bar blew up, so if you need me to spot you a hundred or two…" you think back to your first tour of the ship, when you fixed up the regulator, the wall of carbonite you tried to avoid. "Wait, did…did you just make a joke?"</p><p>There's a weird sound in his throat that seems like a laugh. "Yeah. Guess I did. We'll figure it out later. Let me put her into hyper first. Take a seat."</p><p>That Mandalorian. Full of surprises.</p><p>You take a step to the seat on your right before something green and familiar catches your eye. "Hey Tiny!" You are, like, beyond happy to see this cute little gremlin is still around. "Why didn't you tell me he was still traveling with you?"</p><p>"Didn't have much time between the blasters and the fire." The Razor Crest rises from the ground, climbs towards the sky, and as it does you pick the little creature up and take the seat from him, setting him in your lap instead. He looks up at you with his big eyes--is it possible they got even bigger since you'd last seen him?--and gives you a chirp of recognition. One hand moves to give him a gentle boop on the nose while the other reaches for the straps of the harness.</p><p>"I'm almost afraid to ask, but what's the deal with this little bugger? Everyone who's shooting at you seems to be looking for him."</p><p>"It's a…long story," he says, as the Crest breaks through the sky and the stars start to reveal themselves. You remember the first time he gave you that excuse, but it was a lot easier to accept half-truths and gaps in histories when you had a safe place to rest your head at night, a place away from all of this. Especially one that was all-you-can-drink.</p><p>"Normally I would take that answer, no questions asked, but the people who shoot at you wind up shooting at me sooner or later. Give me the short version."</p><p>He sighs again. This man. Always sighing. "That's fair. The short version is that I've been tasked with returning him to his people." There's an edge to his voice that tells you he's being honest, but also that this is as much of the story as you're going to get, at least right now. You're fine with that. It's more than you were expecting.</p><p>"Alright, cool." You take his little green hand in between two fingers and give it a little shake, and for some reason, the action has him roaring with laughter. "Any leads on where to find them?"</p><p>"Not much," he says. "Engaging hyper-drive."</p><p>You brace your feet on the floor of the cockpit while you wait for the ship to jolt forward, and the action sends a spike of pain through your spine. Okay. Not as healed as you thought you were. Doesn't matter. You ignore it. </p><p>As Mando moves the lever, you say, more to the kid than to him, and more as a distraction than anything else, "that's okay, just means we have more time to get to know each other, don't we kid?"</p><p>The kid in question blows a bubble with his spit. <em>Gross,</em> part of you thinks. <em>Adorable,</em> says the other part. The little one gives you a full, hearty belly laugh as the ship lurches forward, gaining speed before she finally settles into her own inertia, rattling in a way that tells you she needs a tune up, and soon. "He's quite the traveler, isn't he?"</p><p>"He does alright. Setting course to Navarro. There's some shops where we're heading. You should be able to find anything you need. I'm gonna get some rest. There's a free bunk above mine if you need it. Keep an eye on the kid in the meantime."</p><p> </p><p>He was right, there are plenty of shops, but having only a handful of credits to spare at the moment, you only picked up a toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a bottle of something strong. Like you said, long day. You pick up some bacta-patches too, since, for some fucked up reason, you feel bad for the amount of burns that liter your body, the amount of aid you needed after your bar almost collapsed on top of you. After all, it almost collapsed on top of him too...though he had all that beskar to protect him.</p><p>The Mandalorian left you in the market and told you to watch over the kid for half an hour or so while he took care of business in the cantina. While you were sad to miss out on the bar, you were also grateful. You missed your own bar more than you thought you would. You didn't need a reminder of all that you had just lost.</p><p>He met you back where you had parted, right on time, as punctual as he said he would be. "That all you got?" he asked.</p><p>"I didn’t exactly have time to raid my piggy bank before I left," you said.</p><p>He nodded, then held out his hand. "Here. Consider it an advance." The two of you still hadn't figured out the logistics of your stay on the Crest, the nitty gritty of pay, job, whatever, and you wanted to refuse, but you also wanted a change of clothes.</p><p>"Sounds good. Give me another twenty minutes or so, yeah?"</p><p>"Sure. Here, I can take him."</p><p>You slide the bag containing your favorite snot monster off your shoulder and carefully hand it to him. You're hesitant to part with him, but if you're being honest, the added weight was a pain on your back that you didn't need right now, what with your bumps and bruises still hurting. "Thanks. I won't be long."</p><p>You aren't. You've been around the galaxy enough to value form over fashion, and so you shop for durability and comfort. Long sleeved shirts, thick pants, a couple of lighter items in case he takes you to some forsaken desert planet, all in dark or neutral colors, so the dirt and grime wouldn't show as much, so you could get away with a few more days before washing. Practical. Sensible. You're back where you left him in a cool fifteen.</p><p>"Done?" He says, not in a way that's rushing you, but definitely in a way that implies he wants to move on.</p><p>"Almost. Listen, I hate to harp on it, but that regulator. You replace it yet?" You ask the question out of politeness more than anything. You already know the answer.</p><p>Another sigh. Long and drawn out this time. "Do I really need a new one?"</p><p>"Depends. You want to be stuck in deep space without any throttle?"</p><p>Silence. </p><p>"I saw someone selling one that might work. At least something better than the one we got off that gunship. Wanna take a look?"</p><p>"Sure. Fine. Lead the way."</p><p>You find the stall easily. You hadn't wanted to get too close before, wary of approaching a set of goods you didn't have the money to pay for, but with your roaming bank in tow, you step up more confidently, peering at the item in question. The merchant is on you in a second. "Looking for something?"</p><p>"How much for the regulator?"</p><p>It's more than it's worth, and judging by the way the Mandalorian tenses beside you, more than he wants to pay for. That's alright, you know how to haggle. You bring her down a couple hundred credits, get your hands on the thing, turn it over, appraise it for every ding and dent it's worth. ''Final offer, three hundred."</p><p>"Three-fifty."</p><p>"Three-ten."</p><p>"Fine. Take it."</p><p>The Mandalorian hands over the credits, and you tuck the metal box into your bag, along with your clothes and other new necessities. Everything you own is in the bag, and there's still room. A hard restart. Whatever. You'll figure it out.</p><p>While you walk back to the Crest, Mando asks you, "Was that really necessary?"</p><p>"It's not a perfect fit, but the wattage is closer to what your ship's firing. We'll have to replace this one too, eventually, but it'll work for now."</p><p>"Seriously? Another one of those?"</p><p>"Hey, your fault for flying something pre-Imperial. Exact parts are hard to come by these days."</p><p>"Spend a lot of time working on pre-Imperial ships, do you?"</p><p>"Only when you roll into town--oh, sorry, no. Only when you come flying into town, gracelessly tumbling off of an exploding speeder bike."</p><p>"Funny. Didn't realize I was picking up a comedian."</p><p>"I'm a woman of many talents, clearly."</p><p>He doesn't say anything, but you imagine him smirking behind all that beskar. At least, you hope he is. You'd hate to have misread his demeaner, overstep some boundary in the amount of teasing that's appropriate in this situation. You try to put the thought out of your mind as you walk back to the ship, think of something else instead, like the volcanic rivers to your right, or the way your chest hurts every time you breathe too deeply, or the way you still can't quite keep up with the pace he's setting, forcing him to slow down for you. This time, instead of being grateful for the accommodation, you're irritated with yourself. Stupid fragile human skin and bone.</p><p>The Mandalorian, however, has other things on his mind. "Listen, in case it hasn't come across yet, I'm really sorry about what happened with your cantina. Should have been more careful."</p><p>The loss still hurts, and hearing him externalize it makes it hurt deeper, but you're trying to move on. "It's my fault too. Got distracted. And in any case, pretty sure the one with the explosive was one of the ones I took down. Guess my aim isn't what it used to be."</p><p>"Still," he says, kindly dismissive of the acknowledgement of your own shortcomings. "That was your home. I'm sorry it got blown up just because you got caught helping me out."</p><p>You shake your head, understanding the sentiment, but feeling the dissonance in the way it doesn't apply to you. Home is a loaded word, doesn't mean the same to everybody. "It was just a place to make a living. And, I guess, yeah, get a drink or two. I appreciate it, though. I know you didn't mean for it to burn down."</p><p>Another minute or two passes, another ten or twenty paces in the dirt. "I'd do it again, though."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"I'd do it again. Help you out." He doesn't say anything, so you continue. "It's the 'enemy of my enemy is my friend,' sort of thing. Clearly, whatever you're doing is upsetting the Imps. Happy to throw a wrench in their plan any day. So, yeah, worth it in the end, I guess."</p><p>"You really don't like the Empire, huh?"</p><p>"Does anybody?"</p><p>"You'd be surprised," he says, and you recognize an echo of a previous conversation. "There's still a few holdouts throughout the galaxy, still a few Imps-turned-warlords not willing to let go of their power, gaining a following."</p><p>"Feel free to drop me off right in front of them. I'll show them what's up."</p><p>He gives a full-bodied laugh at the thought, a tiny thing like you, huffing and puffing from a leisurely stroll, taking down entire power-structures on your own. "Yeah, sure, right after I watch you tame a herd of wild loth-cats." </p><p>In your defense, your imaginary take-down of warlords didn't include a set of bruised ribs tagging along. "I'm serious, dude. Many a commander has met their death by underestimating me." You feel how ridiculous the words are as soon as they leave your mouth, but you figure it was only fair to give him a heads up in case he ever felt the need to double cross you. "Belittle me at your own peril."</p><p>"Consider me warned," he says dryly, though not without humor, and you rest your mind by convincing yourself that you're on the same page. He taps a button on one of his bracers as the your approach the ship, and the ramp descends. You board the ship again, startled by the realization that this hunk of metal is the closest thing you have to a home.</p><p>What a loaded word.</p><p>He shakes you from your thoughts. "Do you need to replace that thing right now?"</p><p>"The regulator? Uh…" You look at the panel you'd have to unscrew that's in front of the crawl space you'd have to squeeze into. The thought of wiggling in there makes your body hurt and your head swirl. Right. Concussion. "Let's see how many jumps we can get from the one currently installed. Hate to waste a perfectly good regulator. Or, at least a functioning one."</p><p>He mumbles something that sounds like, "then why'd you make me buy a new one right now," but you don't take the words to heart. You've been on his ship twice now, have seen the spare parts, not to mention spare weapons, that line the hull of the Crest. You know he knows the value of a backup, wouldn't have been able to get this far without it.</p><p>Speaking of which. </p><p>"Hey, forgot to mention before, but I didn't make it out of the cantina with my blaster. Mind if I borrow one until I earn enough credits to buy my own?" It's almost a rhetorical question, considering the nature of your relationship, the almost-sort-of-friendship you had forged by way of covering each other's asses, the line of work he's in. The price of another shooter on your side is invaluable, so you're pleased, though not surprised, when he walks over to the nearest control panel and types in a code unknown to you.</p><p>"Just take one." His weapons cabinet springs open, and oh, oh boy, this is gonna be fun.</p><p>Your eyes widen at the sight while he ascends the ladder to the cockpit and tosses a "wings up in ten," over his shoulder.</p><p>Yeah, sure, ten minutes, that’s enough to go through all of this.</p><p>The sensible part of you, the thoughts stringing themselves together in the back of your mind, has the decency to be surprised by the trust he's displaying in showing you his super-secret shooting cabinet and leaving you to your own devices. Then again, you have saved him, his kin, and his ship a total of three times now, and he's only saved your ass once, so you suppose this display of trust is entirely warranted.</p><p>Ten minutes. Not enough time. You select something roughly the size and shape of the blaster you left in the burning cantina, close up the glorified closet, and head up the ladder to take your seat. Your ribs are screaming. Your head pounds. You ignore it.</p><p>As you sit down, strap in, gather the little one back onto your lap, Mando glances at you, at the new blaster strapped to your hip. "I like that one. Don't lose it."</p><p>You have trouble wondering exactly what he'll have you doing that might cause you to lose a blaster. Other, than, you know, meeting you in exploding buildings and bringing shootouts into the place where you rest your head at night.</p><p>"Sure thing, Mando." You wave the thought from your head. Clearly, his profession is one that is extremely safe, right? You snort to yourself, cough a little bit to cover it up. You try to ignore the fire it sets in your chest.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You have <em>incredible</em> foresight.</p><p>By that, you mean that you were right. Right right right.</p><p>You don't gloat though. That would be unbecoming of a new hire. So you don't gloat. Don’t rub it in his face.</p><p>Much.</p><p>"Told you it wouldn't hold."</p><p>After a rough landing, ship jumping and stuttering and not very happy, the hull started to smoke, and, yeah, just as you had warned him, the regulator was burning out.</p><p>"Maker. Yeah, fine, I'll give it to you. Glad you made me get the spare." So that's the fourth time you've saved his ass. Preemptively, this time. You ought to start charging him more. Once, you know, you had a leg to stand on, could afford more than toothpaste, didn't have to hide a wince every time you took a deep breath. Then. Then you would start charging more. "You can fix it, right?"</p><p>"I mean, theoretically? I assume you have extra wiring? Plyers? Soldering equipment? Since, you know, my own tool box…exploded."</p><p>He points to another storage cabinet. "Everything you need should be in there."</p><p>"Great. Then yeah, should be all fixed up by the time you come back…or….how long did you say you'll be?"</p><p>"Probably a day or two, tops. If I'm lucky, a long afternoon."</p><p>"Cool. Yeah, then there's a good chance it'll be done by the time you get back. Just don't take any shortcuts."</p><p>"I'm leaving the kid with you. Okay?"</p><p>"Okay. Yeah." You suddenly realize you're not really sure how to care for an infant for, worst case scenario, an entire two days. "But, like, what does he eat?"</p><p>"Honestly? Anything, really. Likes cookies."</p><p>"Do you have any cookies?" You specifically remember looking for some. You didn't find any.</p><p>"No."</p><p>Disappointment. "So….ration bars?"</p><p>"Yeah, he'll eat those."</p><p>"Cool."</p><p>"Don't open the door unless it's me."</p><p>"How do I tell?"</p><p>"Door's wired to my bracers. You shouldn't have to open it."</p><p>"Ah. Okay."</p><p>"And don't wander too far. Mon Cala is…" he pauses for a second, trying to find the right word. He settles on, "tricky."</p><p>"I know. I've been."</p><p>The beskar figure in front of you straightens almost imperceptivity, and you can tell he's surprised, interested, but he doesn't push. Too much to do. He hesitates at the door to his ship.</p><p>"Go. We'll be fine. You've seen what I can do with a blaster."</p><p>He nods. Then, with a swish of his cloak, he leaves, door closing up behind him.</p><p>"Okay Tiny," you look down at the little green marshmallow in front of you. "Just you and me. And that drill. You ready for this?" </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The crawl space is…yeah, not fun right now.</p><p>You hadn't remembered it being such a tight squeeze before,  but with your newfound inflexibility, the positioning is painful. And you hadn’t brought everything you needed into the space with you--not enough hands. Judging by the pain in your chest, this was a one and done situation. No way were you going to be able to climb back in here once you climbed out.</p><p>Okay, weird problems required weird solutions.</p><p>"Hey, Booger, you there?"</p><p>The kid chirps in response, waddling into view.</p><p>"Perfect. Great. Okay. You see that bolt there? Need you to roll it on over to me. No, not that one. No! Don't touch that! There, a little to the left. Okay…okay…yes, good, that one. Just push it over to me."</p><p>Miraculously, the kiddo uses a tiny green hand to push it in your direction, but it ends up rolling in a circle, anchored by the heavier end of the bolt.</p><p>Great.</p><p>"That’s okay, Bug, just try again. Maybe….maybe walk it over to me. Can you do that?" You reach out an arm, biting back a hiss of pain, in an attempt to make it easier for the kid. Something gets through to him. He doesn't pick it up and place it in your palm--no, that would be too easy--but he does roll it a couple more times, and as it spins in circles on the metal floor, it inches closer to you. You're able to reach out and snag it without too much more pain, so you chalk it up as a win and hope the next instance of his help will be a little easier on you. It isn't.</p><p>But you're a professional. At least, you are now. That's what being paid for your services meant, right? He pays you, you're a professional. Sure. Yeah. And even without whatever your fee was, you knew what you were doing, had been under the hoods of enough ships to tell one wire apart from another. So that's what you do. You start small, disentangling the mess of wires you had left before in your rush job. You distinctly remember thinking "the next mechanic will have a tough time with this one." The universe has a wicked sense of humor.</p><p>Drill, solder, drill, solder, tangle, untangle, tangle again. The hours pass in this way, with occasional interludes from the little button of joy, chirping or whining or blubbering or otherwise tottering about, never too far from you, thank Maker. You don't know what you'd do if you'd have to chase him down. You reach the point where you think the wiring is done, and you're able to slip the regulator into its place among the complicated machinery of the ship. Now, all that's left to do is test it out.</p><p>Except you've overextended yourself. Your ribs are on fire. And you can't get out of the crawl space.</p><p>Well, you could. You could try a little harder, at least, but you don't see the point. It's kind of cozy down here, in an uncomfortable, unyielding sort of way. Yeah. This is fine. You live here now. Down in the belly of the Razor Crest. A nice spot to rest your head, a little window to slip food and beverages through. Sure. This is fine.</p><p>Then the kid starts crying, and fuck if you don't want to deal with that right now.</p><p>"Shush! Shhh!! It's okay. Everything's fine. Just shush!"</p><p>You wonder to what degree he knows that everything is not fine, the precise amount that he cares for the predicament you are in. Maybe this is an attempt at empathy. Then again, maybe he's just hungry.</p><p>Seeing as want for food is the more likely option, you have two choice here. Lie down in this crawl space and wait for your new employer to return at any point from one minute to a day and a half from now, listening to the cries and sniffles of this kid--embarrassing and headache inducing--or get your ass up and figure out this problem yourself. The decision is made almost instantly. Far be if from you to ever wait for a <em>man</em> to solve your problems for you. Ugh.</p><p>You wiggle out like an inch worm. Embarrassing, check, headache inducing, check, painful, check check check, but at least no one sees you but the kid, and he's not going to tell anyone. As soon as you have the room to properly pick yourself up, taking the time and space to do so, you do, gingerly, maddeningly slow. You make a mental note not to crouch again, then throw the note out the window because you realize you have to pick up the kid. Luckily, he's not heavy, and if you have to brace most of your weight against the wall to stand up this time, neither of you mention it.</p><p>Mando didn't say how much he ate, just that he would eat a ration bar, so you only take one from the cabinet before settling back down. One bite for you, one bite for him. Except you miscalculated. The kid can <em>eat.</em></p><p>"Alright you little trash compactor. I'll get two next time." Your stomach growls ever so slightly, but no way in hell are you getting up again just to find something to eat. Too painful. Not enough payoff. Instead, you maintain your position, back right next to the open panel of the crawl space you had been stuck inside for most of the afternoon. You stifle a yawn, and the kid mirrors you. You realize you haven't slept since the morning your bar exploded, and privately try to count the hours since you'd last been warm in bed. Too many. You remember the irregular schedule of life among the stars, figure you better readjust yourself to it at some point. "What say you and I take a little nap, huh?"</p><p>The kid conks out after a minute of you stroking the skin behind one of his ears. You follow not long after.</p><p> </p><p>The swish of an opening door. Footsteps. A little bit of a struggle. Choice words slung back and forth. You wake to these sounds and more, eyes opening just in time to see the carbonite freeze, some poor soul stuck inside of it.</p><p>"Successful hunt?" Your eyes are heavy with sleep. Your back is very unhappy.</p><p>"Fine." He says. "Did you fix the ship?"</p><p>"Yeah. Or, uh, probably."</p><p>"Probably?"</p><p>"Didn't get a chance to test it out. The kid, uh, needed a nap." Yeah, sure, let's blame the kid. Convenient excuse. He can't argue with that, right?</p><p>But he tries to. "Thought you said you could do this." You bristle at the glancing insult to your skills. Sure, maybe the job wasn't totally done, but it wasn't not done.</p><p>"Just climb up there and test it out. Should be fine. I don't think it'll give us as much trouble as the one from the gunship."</p><p>He doesn't say anything, just climbs up the ladder, and you look down to the wrinkled bean in your lap. "He's grumpy when he comes back from a hunt, huh."</p><p>The kid makes a chain of nonsensical noises and you decide that means he agrees with you.</p><p>In another moment, the ship hums to life, not quite purring, but close, and you feel your pride swell. Teach him to underestimate your technical prowess.</p><p>He slides down the ladder, unholstering some of his gear as he does so and placing it back on the wall where it belongs. "Nice job," he says, and there's still an edge to his voice, but you can tell he's impressed by the lack of false starts. "How fast can you close that up? We should get out of here."</p><p>In your arms, the kid stars squirming, reaching out his hands. "Hang on, I think he wants you." You move to get up, then think better of it, hoping he doesn't see the wince the movement pulls from you. Luckily, he walks towards you and picks up the green bean without comment. "How was he?"</p><p>"Pretty helpful, actually. Tossed me some bolts when I asked, or, well, rolled them. Ate most of a meal ration. Fell asleep."</p><p>The helmet peers at the kid while he takes him to the crib floating nearby. "You help her fix the ship, but you won't help me?" They're not exactly private words, but you can't help but feel you weren't meant to hear them, so your try to hide your wry smirk. It's sure a sight, seeing one of the galaxy's most dangerous beings pretending to be offended by the actions of a toddler.</p><p>He turns back to you. "Close that up as soon as you can. I'll work on plotting our next course."</p><p>"Sure thing," you say, and regret the words as soon as they come out of your mouth, making promises you're physically unable to keep. He's halfway up the ladder before you find it in you to reverse course. "Wait, hang on, do you…" you try to move to face him a bit more, but you're stiff from the terrible sleeping position. You used to sleep on rocks. <em>Rocks.</em> And now a lousy couple of hours on the floor of this rust bucket ship is enough to keep you down. "What do you have in the way of painkillers?"</p><p>He stops two thirds of the way up the ladder, turns his head to find your body, rigid against the wall of the ship. "What'd you do, electrocute yourself?"</p><p>"No." A spark of anger ruffles against the accusation. You know proper electrical safety protocols. And it wasn't anything you did. It was just…the situation you found yourself in…via actions you had taken. Totally different. "Ribs flaring up. From before."</p><p>He starts his descent down the ladder. "Thought you took care of that."</p><p>"Took care of the burns. Didn't have anything for the ribs."</p><p>"There should have been a stim in there."</p><p>"There wasn't."</p><p>"Why didn't you say something?" He goes back to the med kit cabinet, moves some things around. "Here it is, way back in there. Probably too short to see it."</p><p>You don't like this, don't like having to ask for help, don't like the not-quite-insult to your small stature. Small but mighty, thank you very much. "Didn't want to bother. Already stole all of your bacta patches for the burns."</p><p>"No you didn't. There's some right here."</p><p>"Yeah, only 'cause I picked some up on Navarro."</p><p>He pauses for a second in his reorganization of the med cabinet. "You didn't have to do that."</p><p>"Yeah I did."</p><p>"I'm not counting bacta patches against you."</p><p>"Yeah, well, I am. You did me a favor, bringing me on board. I'm not trying take more than I'm worth from you."</p><p>You think he's going to push back on that for a second, say something dumb about him owing you or you working it off later or whatever, but you've run your life by a very specific code, and it's gotten you this far. You're not about to tweak it for this shiny grouch and his weird little son. </p><p>"Ridiculous," he says, and you agree. You feel absolutely ridiculous here, on the floor of his grimy ship, asking for some sort of healing agent so you can finish the job you started and strap yourself in for takeoff. His words shift gears though, in the most thoughtful, irritating manner. "You almost had a building dropped on you because of me, and you're worried about taking too many bacta patches and stim canisters." He turns back towards you, and for a second you're afraid he's going to insist on giving you the shot himself, but he seems to sense your need to grasp at independence. He tosses it at you instead, a good and careful shot, because you're able to catch it without too much trouble, too much pain.</p><p>"Let me know when you've closed that up." He plucks the kid out the crib and stalks up the ladder, almost like he's mad at something, and it presents another strange image, this angry hunk of beskar and his helpless kid. You might have been worried, but you've already established his grouchy mood is mostly due to external factors, meaning external to the ship, external to you. You don't read into it. You just plunge the shot in your arm and wait for relief to come. It's almost instant. You can't believe it was that close all this time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The climb up the ladder is easier now, as is pretty much everything else. Gotta love advances in intergalactic medicine. Stim shots weren't this good back when you were regularly acquainted with them. "Everything's set. Feel free to take off."</p><p>The motions to get into hyperspace are smoother now, mostly because the ship doesn't rattle as much, but also because your ribs don't rattle as much either. Once you're cruising at the desired speed, you unclip the harness and move to go back down the ladder, not wishing to spend more time than necessary with a Mandalorian who's clearly still at least a little pissed off. He stands and faces you before you can leave the cockpit, leaning casually against the pilot's chair as he looks at you, stopping you in your tracks.</p><p>"Fifteen."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Fifteen percent of whatever I make in exchange for keeping the ship running and keeping an eye on the kid. Okay?" He asks the question like it's not really a question, and you want to say yes, sure, okay, it's a good deal, but you like to haggle, and you're not about to miss the opportunity to put a few more credits in your pocket.</p><p>"Twenty."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Twenty percent."</p><p>"Seventeen."</p><p>"Eighteen and a half."</p><p>He considers the offer for a moment, runs some mental calculations in his head. "You a decent pilot?"</p><p>You weigh the question as you figure out the best way to answer it to get what you want. You go with honesty and a side of embellishment. "Never flown one of these before, but I pulled some crazy moves out of a Delta-7 back in the day. Pretty good around a Y-Wing Bomber too, if you want the boring part of my resume."</p><p>"Where the hell did you find a Delta-7. Thought they were all disassembled."</p><p>"It was a long time ago. Other side of the Outer Rim. Pretty sure I crashed the last working one. And it wasn't my fault, mind you," you're quick to make clear. "Ship was sabotaged before take-off and I didn't realize until too late. Walked away from the landing, though, clearly, so that should tell you all you need to know."</p><p>He considers you for another minute, and you wonder what he's thinking under that helmet. Finally, he speaks up again. "Fine. Twenty percent. But only because the math's easier that way. And don't crash my ship."</p><p>You grin at him. "Wouldn't dream of it. I'm gonna get some rest. Which bunk is mine again?"</p><p>"Top. One more thing." He pauses, waits for you to look up at him, makes sure you're paying attention. "If something's wrong, you tell me. Got it?"</p><p>It's not quite a command, but it's the closest he's gotten to giving you one in what amounted to be, so far, a pretty dangerous partnership from the first time he crashed into your town until now. You don't feel the need to argue with him. "Sure," you say easily. You're trying not to make it a big deal, trying not to dwell too much on your earlier embarrassments. He doesn't let you get away that easily.</p><p>"I mean it. Clearly you have the self-preservation instincts of a fish beached on Tatooine."</p><p>"Hey, I'm not that bad. I've made it this far, right?" You give him another easy smile, a shrug of your shoulders that would have been difficult only hours ago.</p><p>He shakes his head, waves you off, makes it clear that you're free to go, but you're pretty sure you hear him saying something to the little one, something like "The Y-Wing Bomber's the boring part of her resume. What have we gotten ourselves into, kid?"</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ask for help if you need it, folks!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Promise me you'll start where I end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Reminds me of your cantina," he says after you've both had a chance to take a good, discreet look around.</p><p>You snort. "My cantina was much nicer than this."</p><p>"Your cantina was…" he pauses, and something in his body language shifts, as if the words on his tongue just caught up with his brain.</p><p>"My cantina was what, exactly?" you say sharply, eyebrow raised, almost as a sort of dare.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have soooooo much work that I'm ignoring right now, you guys.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I don't like this planet."</p><p>"I know. You said."</p><p>"I know I said. But I really don't like it."</p><p>"I know. And I told you I heard you the first hundred times you said it. Now shut it, will you? Need you to pay attention."</p><p>You are paying attention, you swear, or at least paying attention as much as you can when you're not quite sure what it is you're supposed to be paying attention to. He didn't give you a lot of details earlier that day, when he woke you from your nap. He only knocked on the door to you bunk and told you to get up. He needed you.</p><p>You had assumed he needed your help with the kid, or some advice on ship repairs, or maybe wanted to show you around the control board for an orientation that would name you official pilot of the Razor Crest. That's not what happened.</p><p>When you kicked your boot against a button on the control panel and slipped out of the open door of your bunk, you found him in front of his weapons cache, holstering one blaster or another. You shook the sleep from your body as you jumped down. "How long this time?"</p><p>"A couple hours or so. Just gathering intel. Shouldn't be long."</p><p>"Alright. See you when you get back." You stretched your back and stifled a yawn, intending to find your way into the cockpit to run some diagnostics and find out what else was wrong with the ship. </p><p>Then he said, "Not so fast, You're coming with me this time."</p><p>"Wait, really? Thought I was just the babysitter-slash-mechanic."</p><p>"Need your eyes. It's a crowded planet, and I still don't know what your deal is, but you seem like the kind of person who can tell when she's being followed."</p><p>You nodded in confirmation, pleased with his estimation of your skills. "Where are we?"</p><p>"Just docked on Kuat."</p><p>Oh hell no. "Kuat? Is that the one with the manmade ring around it?"</p><p>"That's the one. You been?"</p><p>"Made a point to avoid it. A little too…claustrophobic for my tastes." From what you could recall, Kuat was a mechanical hellscape that you had no desire to step foot on.</p><p>"That's why I need you. Too much to keep track of all at once." As if he sensed you were about to protest, he added, "We're just going to the local dive bar and back. Come on. I'll even buy you a drink."</p><p> </p><p>Which brings you here, scanning the crowds with an empty glass, patience wearing thin. "What am I looking for again?"</p><p>"You're not looking for anything. You're here to make sure no one else is looking for us."</p><p>"Can I get a refill at least?"</p><p>"No." There's more than a touch of annoyance in his voice, so you drop it, even though you're pretty sure that your irritation with him rivals his irritation with you.</p><p>"Kuat, of all places" you grumble. "Didn't need my help on Mon Carla, but you need my help on Kuat."</p><p>"Not as many lifeforms on Mon Carla," he answers back. "Besides, there's more to see here anyway. Not sure what kind of tourist destination you're upset about missing out on at the last stop."</p><p>You shrug. "I like to watch the ships coming in and out of port."</p><p>The conversation fades, so you turn your attention more fully to the task at hand, tuning into the sounds and sights of the crowded, dusty city. The whirring of machinery is a constant buzz, a backdrop to the entire planet, but at least inside the cantina it's a bit more muted. You're both sitting at the bar with the kid in between you, slurping up the remnants of his soup. While you sit with your back to the bar, facing the door, the crowds, Mando waves down the bartender and orders the hungry muffin a second helping. You try to push down your annoyance at the fact that the kid gets a refill and you don't. </p><p>Mando was right about one thing, though. There's too much to keep your eye on, too much to take in, especially in a way that doesn't make it obvious that you're looking for signs of trouble. You make yourself look busy by cleaning out the dirt and grease from under your fingernails, all the while scanning the room out of the corner of your eye. The room is large, circular, and this isn't the only bar top that people are crowded around, which makes your spot a difficult vantage point, but you make do. You've already figured out 4 different exit routes, if need be, and have your eye on an argument that has a 60/40 chance of breaking out into a bar fight.</p><p>As you continue keeping watch, the Mandalorian to your right drops another handful of credits on the table and bargains with the barkeep for information. You listen to their conversation with interest, taking note of the way he's telling this stranger more information than he's told you.</p><p>The bartender doesn't know anything and isn't in a chatty mood--there's patrons to serve, and on a night as busy as this one, the price of information is higher than it normally is.</p><p>"What now?" you ask, still facing carefully, casually away from him, trying not to draw attention. </p><p>"Now we wait for the kid to finish his soup and head back, I guess. We'll try again when the staff rotates."</p><p>You frown at the idea of having to come back here. "You don't have any other leads?"</p><p>"Client didn't have a lot of information. Just said the quarry was last seen at a dive bar in this part of town."</p><p>"A dive bar?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"Well that's your problem."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"This isn't a dive bar. This is pretty nice for a dump planet like this, honestly. Decent food and everything Definitely not what you're looking for."</p><p>"I don't think so. Pretty sure this is the only one in this part of the city."</p><p>"We literally passed by two on the way from the Crest."</p><p>He tilts his head your way, but doesn't say anything.</p><p>"What?" you say defensively. "You told me to keep my eyes open. I'm surprised you didn't see 'em."</p><p>"I was busy counting blasters," he grumbles as an excuse. You feel satisfied over your triumph for a brief moment, until he finds a way to turn his own shortcomings around and into a win. "See, told you I needed you out here."</p><p>Your roll your eyes. "What did you used to do on jobs like these before I came along? Can't imagine this guy was a good lookout." You tilt your head to the kiddo between you. </p><p>"I wouldn't take these jobs before. Not often, anyway. And definitely not since I found the kid."</p><p>"Why take them now?"</p><p>"Need to. They're worth more, and someone managed to haggle me out of twenty percent of my take."</p><p>You shrug, a wry smile on your lips this time. "Guilty. Though you really ought to work on your negotiating skills. I would have settled for your original offer."</p><p>You don't know why, but the kid looks up at you and laughs like he understands. Meanwhile, the tin can beside you sighs. Poor guy. Can't catch a break. "Come on, let's go." He stands up from his seat and tucks the kid into the bag on his shoulder.</p><p>You follow his lead, relieved to be getting out of here. "Back to the Crest?" you ask hopefully.</p><p>"No. You're taking me to those dive bars you saw."</p><p>Ugh. "Fine, but you owe me another drink." As far as destinations go, you suppose it could be worse.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't buy you another drink. You try to be mad about it, but mostly you're just tired.</p><p>You sit at a corner booth this time, in the shadows of a much smaller, much emptier venue. It's got you nervous in a different sort of way. Fewer patrons means fewer problems, but also less of a crowd to disappear in if something does go wrong. By the way the Mandalorian's fingers twitch as he rubs a set of gloved fingers over the credits in his hand, you're guessing he's feeling the tension too.</p><p>"Reminds me of your cantina," he says after you've both had a chance to take a good, discreet look around.</p><p>You snort. "My cantina was much nicer than this."</p><p>"Your cantina was…" he pauses, and something in his body language shifts, as if the words on his tongue just caught up with his brain.</p><p>"My cantina was what, exactly?" you say sharply, eyebrow raised, almost as a sort of dare. It might be a pile of ash now, but you still considered it sacred.</p><p>"Your cantina was…roughly the size and shape of this one," he says. Almost a nice save. Then he adds, "and it had a lot of blaster marks." The audacity.</p><p>"Gee, I wonder who's fault that was."</p><p>"No idea," he says nonchalantly, almost convincing you of his false innocence. "I'm going to go talk to the bartender. Don't let the kid out of your sight. And keep an eye out for trouble."</p><p><em>More trouble than you?</em> "Already am. The guy by the window behind you keeps stealing glances at us," you say, pointedly looking elsewhere. It's all very clandestine.</p><p>He nods as he gets up, filing the info away for later. "Copy that." Then he's gone.</p><p>The shifty guy in question follows Mando with his gaze, not you or the kid sitting next to you, as he makes his way over to the bar. So he's interested in the Mandalorian, not you or the green bean. Good to know.</p><p>You map every detail of the place out of the corner of your eye while you give the kid's ear a gentle tug, if only to keep him entertained. He's had two bowls of soup in the span of maybe twenty minutes, and the full belly is making him sleepy, but you'd rather not have him fall asleep in a place like this. The kid gurgles at you, tries to catch your fingers in your hand, but you're too quick, and while he's distracted, you reach around to gently tug his other ear. "Gotta work on your reflexes, kiddo," you say. He drools in response. Amazing.</p><p>It's why you almost miss the shifty window guy's leisurely stroll to meet Mando at the bar. Your heartrate picks up as you watch him move, preparing for a conflict, wondering what the best course of action is. You really don't want to participate in another bar shootout, but you might not have a choice.</p><p>On his way over, the nosy guy yells something about trying on the beskar armor, the threat in his statement obvious, and that's when you decide to make your move, standing up slightly from the table, hand on your holster, ready to jump into action. The Mandalorian stops you.</p><p>Two movements, one of them obvious, the other less so. One hand swiftly unholsters his blaster, flicks the safety off, and flicks the barrel at the guy's neck just as he arrives leans on the bar top right next to him. The other hand forms a fist next to his shoulder, a field command directly in your line of sight, meaningless to most onlookers. <em>Hold your position.</em></p><p>Everything turns out okay. Whatever liquid courage the man had consumed before seemed to disappear with the threat of a tracheotomy by way of blaster. He finds his way out of the bar not long after that, while your employer flicks the safety back on his weapon, turns back to the bartender, and says, "now, where were we?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Does that happen a lot?"</p><p>"What, the guy that wanted my armor?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>You're back outside in the crowded but thinning streets, making distracted conversation while you both take turns looking over your shoulders. Turns out you were right about the bar. Mando got the intel he needed and was ready to move forward. </p><p>"More than I'd like it to. Beskar's valuable, but not worth a hole in the head. Most people like that are just trying to gauge how much trouble it would be to pry it off me."</p><p>You frown at the thought. "Sounds un-fun."</p><p>He shrugs. "Not the best part of my day-job, but it's not like it's that different from all the other parts." You reach an intersection you recognize and Mando grabs your arm and pulls you off to the side. He takes the bag containing a very sleepy gargoyle off of his shoulder and hands it to you. "Can you find the ship from here? Should be down that street a ways."</p><p>"Yeah, I can get us back."</p><p>"I'll be gone another day or so. Get to the ship and stay around there until I get back. You know what to do if you're followed?"</p><p>You nod.</p><p>"Good. Get going. I'll do one more sweep of the crowd to try to catch any stragglers before heading out."</p><p>You wonder what he and the little guy have been through to make him so paranoid about being followed, but you don't ask. It’s not the right time. Instead, you feel something warm in your chest, mind lingering on the thoughtfulness of the exchange, the trust he's placing in you, his belief that you can handle yourself, the actions he's taking to cover your back anyway. It's been awhile since you've been back in the field, and even longer since you had a partner you felt like you could trust, someone who trusted you in the same way. You think, maybe, you might be able to find that again with him, an ebb and flow, a rhythm, a friendship even. </p><p>You feel his eyes on you as you cross the street and disappear into the crowd. You look back only once, just before you turn the corner, to try to find his form. You don't see him. He's already gone.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There's a special spot on the side of the kid's left foot. If you tickle it, he absolutely loses his shit, laughing so hard you think he's going to barf. You're afraid of overdoing it, but every time you stop, he waves his hands at you like he wants you to do it again, and, well, how can you say no to that? </p><p>This, more or less, is how you keep yourselves entertained for the next day and a half.</p><p>When he's not asking you to tickle him within an inch of his life, it's probably because he's napping, and that's when you take the time to map out the Crest's control panel. It's familiar if not a bit dated, but you can't wait to finally put her in the air all the same.</p><p>You're in the middle of running some diagnostics when you hear the lower level door open and the tell-tale drag of a body being taken to the carbonite. Then there's a familiar muffled voice uttering a string of curses. You slide down the ladder in time to see him hanging his rifle back up, a routine that feels predictable now.</p><p>"Hey. Hunt go okay?"</p><p>He grunts in affirmation, but doesn't acknowledge you beyond that.</p><p>Uhh…okay. "So where to next, boss? Want me to fly us out of here?" You're standing in front of the ladder, ready to climb back up, trying not to seem too eager to fly the ship yourself. He walks over and nudges you aside, deflating any hopes you had.</p><p>"Don't call me boss." He says. "And I'm flying the ship."</p><p>Hi disappears into the cockpit. The door closes behind him, a clear invitation for you to go literally anywhere else on the ship.</p><p>You peer over at the crib to see if the kid is awake. He blinks at you, all polite and angelic. You wonder where he gets the good manners from. "You're right, kid, that was rude." You chalk it up to the stereotypical Mandalorian broodiness you've heard so much about and try to put the interaction out of your mind, but there's something nagging at you. You try to remember the way he walked over to you, the way he climbed up the ladder. You're pretty sure you saw him limping.</p><p> </p><p>A half hour later he gives you the "wings up in ten" signal, and you hope he had enough time to get the grumpiness out of his system. You fill a canteen with water and pick up the kid before joining him in the cockpit. You nudge his shoulder with the canteen, and when he turns to find out what you want, you swear you can see some tension still in his body, still on edge from whatever fight he walked away from. When he sees the canteen you're holding out, he says "thanks," and takes it from you, dropping it to the side for later, visibly struggling to relax. You take a moment to strap in as the ship rises, then situate the little pistachio on your lap, front and center, giving his ears a light scratch. Were you using him as a sort of cuteness shield? Yes, yes you were.</p><p>Once you're in hyperspace, you move to make your way back down the ladder, but he stops you before you're fully out of your seat. "Stay up here. Keep running your diagnostics or whatever."</p><p>You want to tell him that the mere fact that he calls them "diagnostics or whatever," is the reason why the ships computing system is taking so long to complete the checks in the first place, since it's clearly a maintenance job that he's neglected more that he should. Instead, you very diplomatically bite your tongue and take his place in the pilot's seat as soon as he vacates it. You're more attentive to him than you pretend to be, though, and that’s how you know, yes, uh-huh, he's definitely limping.</p><p>You type in some commands on the ship's computing system and try to figure out your options. You could stay up here, hope it's not too serious, clean off some of the grime from the over-used buttons, and call it a night. You could go down there, confront him, figure out what's wrong, and face his stormy mood. The first option sounds better. The first option sounds like there are no potential boundaries you might cross. The first option sounds like a good plan. </p><p>"He'd ask for help if he needed it, right Tiny?"</p><p>The kid frowns and tilts his head to the side, and, yeah, you don't feel too confident about that either.</p><p>That's when you hear another string of curses from below. You sigh and look to the kid again. "He's gonna make me go down there and demand that he tell me what's wrong, isn't he." </p><p>The kid sticks out his tongue.</p><p>"You are wise beyond your years, you know that?"</p><p>You scoop the kid up and bring him down the ladder, bracing for the confrontation, trying to figure out how to get him to tell you what happened. Lucky for you, it's pretty obvious. He's down on the floor, back against the wall, struggling to get one of his boots off.</p><p>"Thought I told you to stay up there." It comes off a little gruff, but not as menacing as he probably wanted. You deposit the kid in his pram, then turn around to face him. You don't exactly approach him like he's a wounded animal, but you walk towards him slowly, giving him ample time to tell you to fuck off if he really wants to.</p><p>"Sprained or broken?" you ask as you crouch down.</p><p>"It's fine. I can handle it."</p><p>"I though we said we would tell each other if something was wrong."</p><p>"I made no such promises," he says, which, yeah, he had you there.</p><p>You look at his visor, then his boot, and back again. You repeat your earlier question, a little more insistent. "Sprained or broken?"</p><p>He sighs, a big one this time, then relents and moves his leg towards you, a cautious invitation to investigate. "I think it's just sprained. Probably walked on it a little more than I should have. Can you help me get the boot off?"</p><p>You have a better angle to take off his boot without hurting him as much, so it isn't too hard. The sock follows. You graciously ignore how gross and sweaty it is. His ankle is pretty swollen, so it's no wonder he had so much trouble taking the boot off.</p><p>"Does this hurt?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"How about if I bend it this way?"</p><p>His foot flinches, but other than that there's no other indication of pain when he answers in a deadpan, "Yes."</p><p>Terrifying creatures, those broody Mandalorians. </p><p>You place his foot gently on the ground and move to the storage locker containing the med supplies. You kick a crate closer so you can stand on it and get a better look inside. As you do, you give him the diagnosis. "I think you're right, just sprained. Really swollen, but nothing a stim shot couldn't fix, though you should probably still keep off of it for an hour or two."</p><p>He doesn't answer you, and you think it's just because he's cranky, but as you sift through the supplies in the cabinet, you realize what's wrong. Your stomach flips as you turn your head to look back at him, guilty as you remember you used the last stim shot the other day.</p><p>"That's why you didn't want to tell me."</p><p>Slowly, he nods. "Didn't need you beating yourself up more than you already were."</p><p>You take a deep breath, frustrated but determined to fix this somehow. "You've got some gauze and some painkillers. We can wrap it up until we hit the market. Sound okay?"</p><p>"Fine."</p><p>You kneel next to him again, this time bearing the requisite supplies, and start wrapping it up. "You should keep it elevated as much as possible. And keep your weight off of it--"</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, I know," he waves you off. You get the sense that he's taken care of a sprain before, that he doesn't need you teaching him a process he's already familiar with. You secure the wrap and hand him the painkillers before offering out your hand, intending to help him up. You're almost certain that he'll wave you off again, but instead he surprises you by taking it, a firm grip wrapping around your wrist. Maybe his stormy mood had finally passed.</p><p>You risk a question as you pull him up. "What happened, anyway?"</p><p>He doesn't say anything immediately, and you're content to let him ignore you. Upright now, he leans against the wall, keeping most of his weight off of his bad ankle. You want to say something else, fill the silence, break the stare of the rigid, unchanging helmet that seems to be looking at you, but you're not sure what to say. The man beneath the mask gives you another sigh, resignation sagging his shoulders slightly, and answers your question with his own.</p><p>"Promise you won't laugh?"</p><p>Now you are intrigued. Very, very intrigued.</p><p>"I'll do my best?" you say, but you're pretty sure he can see the curiosity in your face, already preemptively glowing with humor. Any story that starts like that from a person like him is something that absolutely must be filed away for future use of harmless teasing. This is a universal truth. Somehow, he trusts you enough to tell you anyway.</p><p>"Tripped on a pit droid."</p><p>To your credit, you don't laugh, but you smile with something like disbelief. "Tripped?"</p><p>"Yeah, on a fucking pit droid."</p><p>You look down as you hold back a snort. "Was it, like, moving? Did it run into you or something?"</p><p>"No. Completely stationary."</p><p>You almost hold it together, but then you picture the scene, all that beskar toppling over itself, cloak landing in a heap and, yeah, you let a few laughs escape.</p><p>You’re afraid he'll be offended, but mostly he just seems tired when he says, "Alright, alright. That's enough. Come here. Help me get to the 'fresher." You might have made it up, but you think you hear a smile in his voice as he waves you closer before settling an arm around your shoulders, strong and firm. You put an arm around his lower back, and something in your stomach flips as he leans into your touch. He awkwardly hops across the hull and you help him, but for some unknown reason, you wish you hadn't arrived at your destination so quickly.</p><p>He drops his arm once you reach the door, and you do the same, not wanting to outstay your welcome. "Thanks for the assist," he says as you step back to give him some space. "Sorry I was such a grouch about it."</p><p>"Oh, so you are able to recognize when you're being an ass?" You say, but you smile so he knows you don't mean it. Too much.</p><p>"Yeah, okay, that's enough out of you," he says. You can still hear the smile in his voice too. "Go finish up those diagnostics." The fresher door closes behind him, sliding shut with a sense of finality, even as the conversation itself feels unfinished.</p><p>You turn to say something cheeky to the kid, something smart to wrap up this whole episode, but all the commotion has lulled the kid into a curious nap, so you climb up the ladder alone and park yourself in front of the control board, trying to relax yourself by looking through flight logs. If you fall asleep sometime later, if you wake up with a blanket around you sometime after that, you don't mention it. Neither does anyone else.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Wanted to fit in some more backstory, but it didn't really fit in this chapter, so look out for it next time. Very appreciative of all of you reading along with this hot mess!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. If You're Looking for Company</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"You know, you could tell me about it."</p><p>"What, you want to hear about all the stupid shit I got into when I was flying for the Rebellion?"</p><p>"Sure," he says. "I mean, if you wanted to talk about it."</p><p>"I only swap war stories over drinking games."<br/>---<br/>~backstory~</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the love you guys are giving to this fic! Means a lot and keeps me motivated. Hope I do your wishes justice with a good bit of backstory and banter here. And maybe, gasp, emotions???? Drunk emotions???</p><p>I mean, it's there if you squint.</p><p>Drunk idiocy may or may not be modeled after authors own drunk antics.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They come in flashes, fire and smoke, screams and pleas, the dizzying feeling of a ship tumbling into atmosphere, blaster fire on your tail, or else it's the terrifying chase of someone dangerous and deadly behind you, following your path as you duck into alleyways, hide behind buildings. When a hand encloses itself around your throat, you wake with a start.</p><p>You figured this would happen sooner or later, the nightmares that come whenever you spend too long in deep space, the planet-hopping that unlocks memories of the war, never staying in one spot for too long. It's a terror that comes with the territory of not having a safer place to rest at night. It's the reason why you'd tried to settle down, just you and your cantina, but the restlessness that came with that was a different sort of anxiety, a different sort of danger.</p><p>With the way your heart is thumping wildly, you know you won't be getting back to sleep anytime soon, not without something to ease the panic away from your body. <em>Just one drink</em>, you promise yourself.</p><p>You wiggle out of your bunk, creep towards the liquor cabinet (which contains more wrenches and bolts than anything else) and retrieve the one lone bottle inside, along with a glass. Then, you scurry up the ladder with bare feet, cold but silent, trying not to wake anyone else up.</p><p>You're surprised to see him in the pilot's seat, so surprised that you give a tiny little "oh!" before you can stop yourself. He jumps to attention, whips his head around to find you and your bottle at the door.</p><p>"Sorry, I just didn't think anyone else was awake since…oh shit, were you sleeping? Sorry, sorry, I can go."</p><p>You take a step or two back down, hoping to find another part of the ship to drink in and forget about this awkward encounter, but, like always, he stops you before you can get far.</p><p>"What's wrong?"</p><p>"Nothing, I'll just--"</p><p>He says your name in that no-nonsense way that he has, forcing you to look back up at him, asking again for a proper answer.</p><p>You're at a weird place with your client-turned-boss-turned-roommate-turned, maybe, friend. You've stopped by a couple planets in the last few days, watched the kid and the ship while he collected bounties, settled into a nice rhythm, but you still can't shake the whole ordeal of his sprained ankle and the fact that he didn't want to tell you, not because of some toxic masculinity bullshit, but because he knew you felt weird about taking his help, and he didn't want you to realize that the help you took ended up being detrimental to him, if only in the slightest way.</p><p>He has his code, you have yours. Yours says that if you keep everyone else in your debt instead of the other way around, you won't have to feel bad about anything, won't have to feel like you owe so much. It's why you've always carried your needs and wants close to your chest, never let on to any weaknesses if you could help it, wanted to earn your keep instead of having it given to you. You've kept this up for years, even in situations where it hurt you more, and you're stronger for it. Or, at least, that's what you tell yourself.</p><p>But now you're in a situation where, in the private tally you're keeping in your head, you and the Mandalorian are more or less even. It makes you nervous. It makes you feel like it's harder to gain the upper hand.</p><p>But he asked you what was wrong. And you had agreed to tell him if something was wrong. And you're not someone who likes to go back on your word.</p><p>Somewhere between total transparency and abject lies is a middle ground. You do your best to stay there. </p><p>"I'm a bad sleeper," you say, and it's the truth, it feels like the truth, and it's the only truth he really needs right now. "Woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. So." You raise the bottle in your hand in a mock toast to further your explanation. "Thought I was the only one up, so I came up here to watch the star-streaks, but it's fine, I'll find something else to do."</p><p>You hope that'll be the end of the conversation, but instead he waves his hand forward and says, "Come on then."</p><p>This was not what you wanted. You wanted to drink alone.</p><p>Still, the copilot's chair is much more comfortable than the crates you would sit on down below, and the cockpit is a much more logistically feasible place to drink than trying to cram your bottle and glass in your bunk with you, so you accept the invitation anyway and try to put on your friendly face. "Do you sleep up here a lot?" you ask as you plop down in your seat, sitting sideways so that the back of your knees are cradled by the armrest. </p><p>"Depends on how long I have between jumps," he says. Short, to the point, doesn't give too much away. "You come up here with that a lot when you can't sleep?"</p><p>You shrug. You haven't really been on the ship long enough to do "a lot" of anything. "Now and again," you say, hoping to achieve the same short, casual tone that he has adopted. </p><p>Then he surprises you with what you think is a joke. "I knew there was a reason why I hadn't let you fly the ship yet."</p><p>"Hey!" You have trouble deciding how offended you should be, so you let the words roll of your shoulders, mostly because you can't think up a good comeback in time. "I'd never fly while drunk. You should know that by now."</p><p>"Nah, just run a cantina drunk."</p><p>"It's called advertising, Mando. Look it up." Though truthfully, you never really drank on the job until a certain someone disrupted your schedule. "Also, I don't understand why you won't let me fly the ship. I'm a great pilot."</p><p>"Sure you are. That Delta-7 you crashed called me up to tell me himself."</p><p>"Sheesh, is that what's stopping you? What about the Y-Bomber I mentioned? And, hey, I flew commercial for a bit too, before all of that. That's gotta count for something."</p><p>He makes a "hmmm" sound, like he's not entirely convinced. </p><p>"Whatever, suit yourself." You open the cork on the bottle in your hand and carefully pour out a glass, somehow managing not to spill anything in your less-than-ideal seating position.</p><p>"You know, you could tell me about it."</p><p>"What, you want to hear about all the stupid shit I got into when I was flying for the Rebellion?"</p><p>"Sure," he says. "I mean, if you wanted to talk about it."</p><p>"I only swap war stories over drinking games," you say, and it comes out like another quip, and that's how you mean it, because, well, you know he can't, you know he's got that whole beskar situation going on. You didn't mean it seriously. You were just about to wave off the joke and tell him about getting your pilot's license, but then you had an idea, a really weird idea, and you were just tired enough to think it might work.</p><p>"Did you want to? I mean, maybe not right now, but at some other point."</p><p>"Want to what?"</p><p>"Share a drink with me. I know you've got the whole," you point haphazardly, "helmet thing, but I could, I don't know, turn around or wear a blindfold or something?"</p><p>He's quiet again, and you're afraid you've fucked up, asked too much of him, overestimated the tenuous trust you were building in each other. "Never mind, forget I said anything." </p><p>And then you down whatever was left in your cup and think about trying to go back to your bunk to hide, but he says, "hang on, wait," and you think you might not have made a total fool of yourself after all.</p><p> </p><p>It takes some logistical work, some trial and error in finding a fabric dark and thick enough, but soon you have a blindfold, a second cup, and a crate slid in between pilot and co-pilot chairs, acting as a little table, necessary for the set-up you have in mind.</p><p>"Okay, here are the rules. First one to finish their drink gets to ask the question, the other has to answer honestly. You're finished with your drink once you set the glass down--that way I can hear it when I can't see. If the glass isn't back on the table, you aren't done. Got it?"</p><p>"You sure you're okay with being blindfolded? Thought you wanted to watch the star-streaks or something."</p><p>"This seems more fun. Besides, we'll be in hyper for, like, half a day longer. I have plenty of time to look out the window." You pour two shots out. "'Course, if you're having second thoughts, I'll totally respect that. But you definitely seem like you could use a drink."</p><p>"Bet you say that to all your cantina customers."</p><p>"That's advertising for ya. Seriously, though, you good?"</p><p>"Yeah, this is fine."</p><p>"And clear on the rules?"</p><p>"Cup goes back on table. I got it. Put your blindfold on."</p><p>You tie the fabric nice and tight around your eyes.</p><p>"Can you see anything?"</p><p>"Nothing. Scouts honor."</p><p>"Don't take it off," he said. You thought that part was obvious, but you guess it doesn't hurt to be clear.</p><p>You hear a click, a rustling, a soft and heavy thud on the ground. "All good?"</p><p>"Yeah, all good." His voice, undistorted for the first time, is warm. Warm like a good drink, like a crackling fire in the dark of night, like the soft glow of dawn, unexpected in a way that makes sense.</p><p><em>Warm like him</em>, something says inside you, but you wave whatever it was away.</p><p>"Ready?" he says, and you're almost taken aback by how eager he seems. You thought you were the one--pardon the pun--calling the shots on this.</p><p>"Wait, hang on." Your hands, unaided by your eyes, search the table for the glass you poured moments before. You're a little clumsy like this, but you find it after a moment. "Okay. 3…2…1…Go!"</p><p>The second the liquid passes through your lips, you're already trying to figure out what to ask him--maybe where he got this rust bucket ship, or something about the kid, or maybe see if he could tell you where you could get a cool cloak like his. It's not that you were being over cocky, it's just that, of the two of you, you were guessing you had more experience at playing drinking games like this. That's why you were surprised, maybe even a little alarmed, by how much faster his glass hit the crate. </p><p>"Wow, okay, beginner's luck I guess."</p><p>"Who said I was a beginner?"</p><p>"Please tell me you are not scamming me for my dumb war stories."</p><p>"Who said anything about running a scam? If you made your own assumptions of my drinking habits based on incomplete observations, that's your problem."</p><p>Fucking. Dammit.</p><p>"Alright, alright, fine, whatever, I'll get you next time. Here's the story about the Y-Bomber."</p><p>"No. Delta-7."</p><p>"That was before I joined the Rebellion."</p><p>"I don't care. I'm dying to know."</p><p>Inwardly, you glow at the idea of his persistent curiosity, the way his thoughts might have lingered on some of the more exciting details you let slip, the way that you might puzzle him in the same way he puzzles you.</p><p>"Okay, sure, Delta-7. Like I said before, it was probably the last one in-tact before they all got disassembled, and it wasn't in great shape when I happened upon it. I was working as a scrapper at the time somewhere mid-rim. A junk-planet called Bracca. Total dump. Worse than Kuat. You can trust me when I say I wasn't there by choice."</p><p>"Let me guess. Empire?"</p><p>You nod, remembering the day you were rounded up and forced into the workcamp, then pushing the memory out of your head, one of those things that's best not to dwell on. "Anyway, I was supposed to disassemble it and salvage what I could, but whoever dumped it on us landed it in a spot underneath one of the railways, almost out of sight from everyone else. And, like, come on, a Delta-7, who wouldn't want to fly one of those if they had the chance? So I fixed it up. Took me about a month, and the whole time I was afraid someone would catch me, or stumble on it when I wasn't there and ruin all my good work. I managed to get it working though, including three of the four laser canons. Lit up the whole fucking sky when I finally flew out on it."</p><p>"So you escaped?"</p><p>"Sort of. Not sure how much you know about the Delta-7s, but they don't have an internal hyperdrive. You need to dock it on an external ring. And, uh, I didn't have one of those."</p><p>"So you crashed on Bracca."</p><p>"Not exactly. Made it to a nearby moon which wasn't as tightly controlled by the Empire. Would have landed perfectly fine, but I think one of my 'scrapper colleagues' must have figured out what I was doing and cut my landing gear last minute, right before I took off. Guy was a dick. Anyway, it ended up working in my favor, because when I crashed, I ran into most of the security cameras on the landing pad. No one caught a clear picture of my face, and by the time they figured out I was the one missing from Bracca, I had already snagged a ride elsewhere. It's a real shame though, because even without a hyperdrive, those things could <em>fly</em> and the canons were pretty powerful. Took out some of the rail lines and a couple TIE fighters on my way out."</p><p>"Where'd you go after that?"</p><p>"Not so fast. One story per shot. Let's go again." You move your hand to find a bottle and almost topple it over. He's watching you carefully, though, and catches it before it can tip too far. The leather of his gloves on your hand is startling, gentle, gone too soon.</p><p>"Might have to cut you off," he says. </p><p>Your scowl is hidden by the blindfold, but you hope he can feel it anyway. "Hey, I might not have my cantina anymore, but this is still my bar."</p><p>"Yeah, yeah, calm down," he says. Without the helmet, without the distraction of your sight, you can hear the humor in his voice even clearer. You also hear the sound of two glasses being filled and the bottle being put back down. You cautiously reach out to find your glass before another gloved hand takes yours and helps you in your search, gently placing your fingers against the smooth surface. "Ready?" he says, and you take a moment to actually prepare yourself this time before nodding. "3…2…1…now."</p><p>It's a dead tie, the back of your hand meeting the back of his as your glasses meet the crate at the same time. "What now?" you ask. The rules you laid out before didn't specify what should be done in this situation.</p><p>"We both ask a question. Come on, haven't you ever played this game before?"</p><p>"Does that count as your question?"</p><p>"Does that count as yours?"</p><p>Behind the blindfold, you roll your eyes. "Is being this infuriating part of the Mandalorian Creed or something?"</p><p>"Obviously," he deadpans. "Now come on, what happened next?"</p><p>You don’t really want to tell him this part, didn't mean to use this game to lay out all your tragedies, so you try to gloss over it. "Next isn't really interesting. I went back to my home planet. By the time I got there, the Imps had trampled over it, taken everything useful, and left the rest to whoever was still around."</p><p>Your words hang a bit heavier than you wanted them to. You try to distract yourself by tracing the base of your glass with your fingers while you wait for him to say something. </p><p>Softly, hesitantly, he asks the question you don't want to answer. "You lose anybody?" He must know, must understand that there's a reason you're able to take off with a bounty hunter and hop across the galaxy in his crappy ship, must realize that you don't have any ties to keep you bound to one place for too long. He asks anyway, and though the question hurts, you appreciate the way he doesn't assume, the way he gives you the chance to tell your own story.</p><p>"The whole village, nearly," you say, because for some reason it's easier to count the bigger loses than the smaller ones, the closer ones. But the liquor has loosened your tongue, and you can't stop yourself from counting down to the ones that hurt most. "Lots of acquaintances. Lots of friends too. And the farm. And yeah, my they got my dad. Mom died before then, caught in the cross fires of some Imperial skirmish. They tried to paint her as a war criminal, but really she was just a commercial pilot trying to do her job. That's why I got my license. Wanted to be like her…Didn't get my brother that day, though. He was still around for a while before the bastards got him a couple years later."</p><p>There's a long silence. You count the breathes between you before someone speaks. One. Two. Three.</p><p>"I'm sorry." When he says it, he sounds sincere, honest, and maybe a little bit broken.</p><p>Your response is automatic. "It's okay," you say, even though it isn't. </p><p>"I didn't realize what I was asking. Didn't mean to, y'know, bring all that up."</p><p>You shake your head. "You couldn't have known."</p><p>"I have more of an idea than you might think I do," he says.</p><p>You string his words together in your mind, try to figure out what he's getting at. "You…you lost people too?"</p><p>There's a pause, like he's trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say. "My parents…I was just a boy at the time. The Empire came. Brought their droids with them."</p><p>Another breath, while you wait and see if he wants to say more. Then another, as you process the loss. "I'm sorry too."</p><p>"It ended up okay. The Mandalorians took me in."</p><p>"Do you miss them? Your parents?" It's an obvious question, but you don't know what else to say.</p><p>"Do you miss yours?"</p><p>You wish you could look him in the eye when you tell him, "Every single fucking day."</p><p>You hear a couple clinks, the sounds of another round being poured out. "Me too," he says quietly. Then, louder, "Here, drink up." He moves the glass into your hand again.</p><p>"Hey, wait," you say gently. "I didn't get to ask my question."</p><p>"This one's free." You sense his movements, hear him knock back the shot at a more leisurely pace, then follow suit, never one to pass up a drink. When you set your glass back down, he says, "okay, ask away."</p><p>Your mind blanks, partially because you're trying to move away from the pain of the last round, partially because you can't believe you have him here in front of you, bound to answer whatever question you ask honestly. For someone as unforthcoming as he can be, the power feels like it's almost too much.</p><p>"Where can I get my hands on a rifle like the one you have? Or, no, wait! Don't answer that. I take it back. Got another one. What's the deal with the kid?"</p><p>You hear him laugh softly, another first for your ears without his helmet obstructing it, and for a second you think about all the other things you could do or say just to make him laugh again, to hear that sound once more.</p><p>"I'm tempted to hold you to your first question. The kid's a long story."</p><p>"All good stories are long ones."</p><p>"The Delta-7 wasn't that long."</p><p>"The Delta-7 is a <em>damn</em> good story and is the one single exception to the rule. Plus I left out a lot of the best parts. Couldn't give you the play-by-play of my fight with the TIEs because I don't have the right props. Now come on, time to hold up your end of the deal."</p><p>"Fine, whatever. First thing's first, you already know this, but it's necessary background info to set the scene: the Imperials are dicks."</p><p>You make yourself comfortable. This ought to be good.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You have so many questions by the time he is done telling you his tale. Most of them can be summed up with a simple "what the fuck?"</p><p>"You're gonna have to be more specific."</p><p>"What do the Imps want with such a tiny baby? He's like, helpless, isn't he?"</p><p>"That's a different story entirely. You're going to have to earn it."</p><p>"What? No it's not, that's definitely part of the same story."</p><p>"So you're telling me you don't want to take another shot."</p><p>"I'm just telling you that I don't think you're playing by the rules."</p><p>"The rules were about hitting the glass on the crate to win. You didn't say anything about what constitutes a proper answer to an honest question."</p><p>"You're violating the <em>spirit</em> of the rules, then."</p><p>"I still don't see a problem."</p><p>"Cheater."</p><p>"All you're doing right now is telling me that you don't think you can beat me."</p><p>"That is so not what is happening here."</p><p>"Yeah? Prove it." The dare is accompanied by the sound of another two drinks being poured, another glass pushed towards your fingertips. </p><p>"Fine. Ready? 3..2..1..drink."</p><p>A half a second. His glass hits the crate a half a second before yours.</p><p>"You have got to be <em>kidding</em> me."</p><p>"Sorry, cyare, rules are rules." There's a teasing tone in his voice that makes you want to absolutely smack him, and you might even try, but you don't trust your aim right now. For one thing, you're blindfolded. For another, his words are bleeding together, sounding foreign, different, and you're wondering if maybe you're on the edge of having too much to drink for the night. </p><p>"Fine. What's your question?"</p><p>"Where the hell did you learn to shoot a blaster?"</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"Just tell me who taught you."</p><p>"Resistance, mostly. And I guess I had help from a few acquaintances here and there along the way. I think my brother was the first one to put a blaster in my hand. Why?"</p><p>"Listen, don't take this the wrong way--"</p><p>"Oh Maker, what now?"</p><p>"--Because you're good. I mean it. You've got a good aim. Good instincts. But you've got to keep your elbow in."</p><p>"Are you kidding me? Did you orchestrate this whole thing just so you could judge me on my form?"</p><p>"Critiquing, not judging. And you were the one who set this whole thing up, remember?"</p><p>You give him a big, annoyed, exaggerated sigh. You think you hear him laughing a little bit, and you're not sure if it's because of you or the drink. </p><p>"Fine, whatever. I'm going to bed." </p><p>"What, don't think you could beat me in another round?"</p><p>"You're enjoying this way too much." You stand up to leave, thinking maybe you could make it to your bunk just fine even with the blindfold and your now-terrible balance. Instead, you hit your shin pretty hard on the crate in between you, causing you to yelp louder than you should, messing up your balance, and making you grab onto the seat next to you to keep yourself stable.</p><p>"Shh!!! Shh shh shhh. Shit. Are you okay?" He reaches out to grab your other forearm, to give you something else to lean against.</p><p>You put your hand over your mouth to keep from saying anything else, and maybe as another way to mask the pain radiating down your leg. You'd completely forgotten to keep quiet. The kid was still sleeping, after all.</p><p>"Ow ow ow," you whisper after you have a moment to recover. You listen hard for the sound of crying, the sign of an infant disturbed from his slumber, but nothing comes. Relief.</p><p>"Here, hang on." He lets go of your arm and you can hear him shuffling around a bit. When he speaks to you again, it’s through the vocoder, and you find yourself missing the low bell of his voice more than you want to. "Okay, take that thing off. Why are you laughing? What's so funny?"</p><p>Your hands, stupidly slow, come up to untie your blindfold as you try to explain yourself, muffling laughter instead of pain now. "I'm drunk and I hurt myself. That's <em>hilarious</em>." Your vision returns as you blink away the darkness. "What? What are <em>you</em> laughing at now?"</p><p>You're pretty sure it's laughter, at least. He's holding back the sound, but with the way his shoulders are shaking, it can't be much else. "You're right. Pretty damn funny. Hey, don't look at me like that, I'm agree with you."</p><p>You can't hold your glare for long. You break down into quiet laughs again, shake your head, and try to head for the ladder. "Okay, I mean it, I'm really going to bed this time. Goodnight."</p><p>"Like I'm letting you go down the ladder like this without spotting you. You're a walking disaster right now."</p><p>He stands to help you, and you think you see him wobble a bit, but he's definitely more put together than you are. </p><p>"Overprotective, much?" You go to pick up the bottle and glasses now, determined to help clean up if he's going to be so <em>gallant</em> and <em>annoying</em> about walking you home. Whatever home meant.</p><p>"Leave it. I'll get it later."</p><p>"<em>Fine.</em> But make sure you put the bottle back in the liquor cabinet. Don't go drinking the rest of it without me."</p><p>He ignores the dig and focuses on the first part of your order. "Liquor cabinet? We don't have a liquor cabinet."</p><p>"Sure we do. With all the wrenches. And the broom and stuff."</p><p>"The <em>tool closet</em>?"</p><p>"Same thing." You start laughing again, because his confusion-slash-mock-outrage is very, very funny to you.</p><p>"It's official. I'm making it official now. You are never flying this ship."</p><p>"Don't make promises drunk that you wouldn't make sober," you tease.</p><p>"You're the drunk one here. I barely feel it. And I'm pretty sure sober me would agree."</p><p>"Whatever. At least I didn't trip on a fucking pit droid."</p><p>"Yeah, okay, that's it. I'm leaving you on the next planet we land on." He's still laughing, though. He doesn't mean it.</p><p> </p><p>He helps you down the ladder and gives you a boost into your bunk, which is just a little higher up than you can manage in your inebriated state. It's all very endearing and humiliating, and it counts against you in the imaginary tally in your head, but you figure that you did him a favor that night too, because Maker, did that man need to unwind a little bit.</p><p>It's still not quite where you want to be with your client-turned-boss-turned-roommate-turned, maybe, friend. It still doesn't give you the upper hand, still doesn't give you any cleaner exit routes in case things go south, in case you need to pick everything up and brave the galaxy alone once more, in case you find yourself at the edge of the universe having lost everything, having to restart, again.</p><p>But you also think, maybe, you could be okay with sticking around for a while, for fighting for this place, this ship, this bunk, these people, maybe you could be okay with counting on someone and having them count on you.</p><p>Okay. Fine. Friends then.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm serious you guys I have so much work to do oh no oh no oh no</p><p>but these two give me so many /feelings/</p><p>Also, and I can't stress this enough kids, don't drink and drive.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Say you didn't see right through me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>You had the merchant down to within 10 credits of the price you were willing to pay when the merchant in question said, "wait a minute, what's going on?" and looked over your shoulder, down the street a bit, to where a Mandalorian--your Mandalorian--stood in confrontation with some other heavily armed and cloaked market-dweller, hand outstretched and tense next to the holster on his hip, a sight for all to behold and cower away from. The other goon mirrored his position, and you realized you were about to witness a dual.</p><p>"Not this again."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Be honest--can you tell I've been playing way too much Assassin's Creed?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Your new friend is a pain in the ass.</p><p>Not because he's grumpy when he comes back from hunts. Not because he drags you across planets you would much rather skip on your sight-seeing tour of the galaxy. Not because he won't let you fly the damn ship. Not even because he still hasn't replaced the irrigation tubing like you had told him to all those months ago and today is the first you're hearing about it. </p><p>No, all of that would just make this a regular Tuesday. </p><p>Your new friend is a pain in the ass because, when you are helping him return blaster fire out of the goodness of your heart after he pulls you into this stupid mess with his own stupid tin-head actions, a job that is not even in your non-existent contract, he has the gall, no, the <em>audacity</em>, to look over at you from behind the overturned market table you are both using for cover, not to make sure you are okay, not to help you figure out an exit plan, not even to check on the kid at your side, but instead to tell you in no gentle tone, "Keep your elbow in." </p><p>How did you get here? Why didn't you stay on the ship? Why weren't you on some sort of paradise planet, lounging by the beach and sipping a nice cold drink? Let's rewind.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Stop on the next planet and wait for Mando to load the last bounty on the ship: check.</p><p>Stay out of the way while he humps and grumps about the job he apparently doesn't like too much: check.</p><p>Set flight destination to Navarro: check.</p><p>Take off: check.</p><p>Smell something burning: check.</p><p>Descend into the cargo hold to find more smoke than anyone should be comfortable with in any situation, never mind in hyperspace: check.</p><p>Frantically take off four or five panels until you find the source of the fire: check.</p><p>Discover there is no working fire extinguisher on board: check.</p><p>Remind yourself to yell at him about it later, but rest easy because at least the irrigation system has been tuned up: check.</p><p>Discover the irrigation system is, in fact, still broken: Check.</p><p>Use one of Mando's spare cloaks to put out the flames: Check.</p><p>Tell him to pull over and pull over <em>right now</em> or so help you, you will find a way to shoot him down and land the ship yourself: Check.</p><p>Land on the nearest planet and walk to the market: Check.</p><p>Haggle for a new irrigation system, including hoses, valves, piping, and other minutia: Check.</p><p>Wait, no, not check. This is where you were interrupted.</p><p>In fact, you distinctly remember getting the merchant down to within 10 credits of the price you were willing to pay when the merchant in question said, "wait a minute, what's going on?" and looked over your shoulder, down the street a bit, to where a Mandalorian--your Mandalorian--stood in confrontation with some other heavily armed and cloaked market-dweller, hand outstretched and tense next to the holster on his hip, a sight for all to behold and cower away from. The other goon mirrored his position, and you realized you were about to witness a dual.</p><p>You remember cursing, saying to yourself, "not this again." </p><p>You remember the way the Mandalorian deftly unholstered his blaster, flicked the safety off, aimed, fired, quick as lightning, reminding you that you were an absolute idiot for ever thinking you could win against him in a drinking game that depended on reaction time.</p><p>You remember the way the other guy hadn't even fully unholstered his blaster when he fell to the ground in a heap.</p><p>You remember how there were multiple other heavily armed market-dwellers who <em>did not like this.</em></p><p>You remember looking down to the Bundle of Joy in a Bag™ at your hip and saying "Hang on, Tiny."</p><p>And that's when, if your memory serves you correctly, the real shootout began.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The thing about having a client-boss-roommate-friend who had a habit of bringing blaster fire with him wherever he went is that, by now, you expected that blaster fire to also be aimed at you. Wonder upon wonders, none of the ten or twelve guys and gals firing at Mando even notice you, an unexpected development that you were more than okay with. Around you, customers and stall-owners alike flee the scene while you stand dumbly, wondering exactly how to approach this mess. Before you can decide, you watch the Mandalorian duck into a nearby ally way, blaster bolts bouncing off of him as he does. And that's when you realize that, not only did he maybe bite off more than he could chew this time, but that if he was going to get out of this, you were going to have to make this your problem too.</p><p>For the time being though, in order to blend in, you run in the opposite direction, ducking into an open door, finding a window to look out of. You watch the team of--were they bounty hunters? Gang members? Angry village people? Imperial sympathizers?--fan out down the street, talking to each other back and forth, saying "Where did he go? Where is he?" and you realize that somehow, Mando was sneaky enough to lose them, meaning 1) he's okay for the moment and 2) he better be really good at hide and seek.</p><p>It also means that every single one of the trigger-happy welcoming party had their back to your position, so if you wanted to make a move, now was the time. </p><p>You have a great position to pick them off one by one via blaster, but you're smart enough to know that you can't drop them all fast enough to make sure they won't drop you first. So you look for other options. That's when you see a stall filled with some really excellent looking knives, and that's when you form your brilliant plan.</p><p>You look down at the kid and say, "This is about to get a little violent. Close your eyes for the scary parts, okay?"</p><p>His ears twitch, but other than that he doesn't say anything, nice and quiet, perfect for the stealth mission you have in mind. You make a mental note to buy him some cookies later. A big box. You want some too.</p><p>You leave the safety of the building you had darted into, run quickly and quietly to the booth across the street, pick up a set of beautifully engraved knives, sharp as your wit, slip them into your boots, and climb up the nearest building, preferring a higher vantage point. No one ever expects anyone to drop in from above, not in these kinds of fights.</p><p>The geography of the town is suited to your stealth needs, houses made of some sort of light colored stone, low to the ground, all the same height, all close together. The widest street is the one containing the market, but outside of that, the houses are crowded against each other enough that it's almost too easy to hop from rooftop to rooftop, quickly, silently, quiet as night. From here you can see at least six heads winding through different but nearby streets, wandering, looking, saying things like "come on out, Beskar-Brain, we just want to talk," which, uh, was an insult you would have to file away for later, but not the best thing to hear from a team that definitely did not want to "just talk." You don't have eyes on the other four or six, but you hope that meant they were far enough away that they wouldn't be immediate problems. </p><p>The ones that you can see, however, are spread out enough, turning enough corners, that you can just maybe do what you have to do without being noticed.</p><p>The first one is easy enough, passing right below you, slow and steady, kicking over the occasional small table or chair as if Mando was slight enough to hide behind them. Thorough, but dumb. He doesn't look up. His mistake.</p><p>If you shot him with your blaster, it would give away your position, and the one advantage you had was that they didn't know you were a player in this game, something you would only maintain by taking them out silently, one by one.</p><p>Also, this was more fun. </p><p>You wait half a second more before holding your breath and jumping, using the man below you to break your fall, bashing his head into the ground as you do. He's out cold in an instant, doesn't even make a sound.</p><p>One down.</p><p>From there, the order of your targets is more or less chosen for you, determined by how close they are and whether or not they are in the line of sight of any of their other teammates. The woman around the corner is next, more competent, looking up and down, keeping an eye on the rooftops. She isn't keeping a good watch on her six though. You slip the knife you picked up before out of your boot and hold it in your dominant hand as you creep up behind her. Two down.</p><p>The next one is tricky, and you make a mistake of stepping too heavily on the gravel under your feet. The bald-headed man in front of you notices and turns around, but is thrown off by your presence. You aren't who he's looking for. For all he knows, you're some chick lost on her way home. You charge him before he can realize that you are a threat, running down the street before jumping onto and then off of the wall for some extra height and momentum--he's a lot bigger than you--then skillfully neutralizing him. It's not a perfect job. He had raised his blaster at you, almost got a shot out, yelled a "Hey! What?" before he was down. You hope it wasn't loud enough for anyone to hear him.</p><p>Then, from behind you, from some street you had recently abandoned, someone yells "Hey, guys! Sanders is down!" and you know things are about to get messy. </p><p>That's when another guy rounds the corner, someone carrying a big assault rifle, someone way too far away to successfully charge, especially when you're standing over the body of his buddy, knife in hand. You can't plead innocence on this one. He'd be too quick to put two and two together.</p><p>Training kicks in. You adjust the grip of the knife so the blade is between your pointer and middle fingers. You center yourself. You bring your arm back. You aim. You breath out. You bring your arm forward, fast. You release the knife. You watch it twirl in the air. You watch it embed itself into your target's shoulder.</p><p>"Damn," you whisper. You were aiming for his throat. Seems like you're a little rusty.</p><p>The man lets out a scream in frustration, anger, pain. His blaster fires rapidly, but he's not aiming very well, so you're able to run back three steps and around the corner, then around another one, disappearing from his sight.</p><p>"There's another one! Some bitch just stabbed me!"</p><p>You unsheathe your other stolen knife from your other worn-out boot and try to quiet your breathing. You're at an intersection, a little space in the crowded buildings where five paths come together. You pick one. You run. You stop. You wait.</p><p>Footsteps around the corner. Quick and light. Close but not enough. A little further. One more step.</p><p>Blaster fire comes from two or three streets away. You don't know what's happening. You can't see. You'd give anything for an eye in the sky right now, a voice in your ear to tell you what's going on. Instead, you bank on your target being just as confused. You round the corner and charge. Another one down.</p><p>By now you've taken enough turns that you're lost. You think about backtracking, but decide instead to use the ledge of the window next to you to boost yourself onto the rooftops again. You find your way back to the commotion, find another target. From somewhere, a voice calls out, "I see him," and then, "false alarm." Then, from somewhere else, more blaster fire. More yelling, this time indistinguishable. The houses are too close together. You can't see.</p><p>Instead, you wait for your next target to run unknowingly beneath you. You jump. You strike. She goes down as easy as the first one you jumped. </p><p>Then, another set of footsteps, fast ones. Running. Coming closer. Too close. You whirl around the corner just in time to see a blaster inches from your face as you slash your knife through the air, stopping inches from his throat. You stay like that for a moment, each with a deadly instrument mere movements away from ending the other, before you take in the man behind the blaster, the familiar visor staring back at you. He relaxes first. You follow suit.</p><p>"What the hell are you doing here? Why aren't you back at the ship?" He says, voice low and gruff through his helmet.</p><p>Footsteps behind you, where this street intersects another. Someone yells, "Hey!" just before the man in front of you aims and fires once, arm barely grazing your ear, close enough so that you can hear metal scrape metal as he pulls the trigger. That's all it takes.</p><p>"Uh, you could try 'Thank you for the help,' instead. Or if that doesn't work with your cranky mood, I also accept gratitude in the form of booze."</p><p>Another set of footsteps behind you, this time from a closer street. His blaster fire is drawing them to your position, making you more traceable than you're comfortable with, but this one is close enough for you to handle. You turn around quickly, press yourself against the wall, and take two steps closer to the mouth of the street. Your latest target comes out too fast to take a good look around, doesn't see you before you disable him with a punch to the gut, a kick to his heel and then, as he drops down, a knee to his face. He doesn't get up.</p><p>"That's five for me. How many have you gotten so far?"</p><p>"What?" he hisses.</p><p>"I've taken out five of the twelve or so I saw on the main drag when they first came after you. How many have you taken down so far?"</p><p>More footsteps. Two or three pairs this time. More than either of you want to handle without proper cover. Mando quickly scans the street and heads for a small pass leading to another block. He waves you with him, giving you an unsaid keep close.</p><p>"I understand the question," he whispers. "I just don't understand how you've taken down five already." Then he puts his fist up, tells you to keep still, keep quiet. You comply. Another pair of footsteps down the street and to the right, but then they fade, and he starts moving again. "I've only gotten three."</p><p>"Including the guy you shot in the middle of a busy street in broad daylight? Which, by the way, what the fuck?"</p><p>"Four, then. And he was going for my armor. Didn't have much of a choice."</p><p>"There was no way to be even a little discreet about this?"</p><p>"Can we talk about this later? How's the kid?"</p><p>You look down at the bag at your hip. Two dark eyes stare back at you. "Quieter than you, somehow. Your blaster is giving away our position." He chooses that moment to fire again, startling you, and while you don't see the body, you hear something thud to the ground in the distance. "Nice shot."</p><p>"There's three more crowding together two streets East of here."</p><p>"How can you tell?"</p><p>"Thermal sensors in my helmet. Let's split off here. Follow this street out to the main drag, then get back to the ship. I'll take care of this and meet you there."</p><p>You want to argue, but he rounds the corner, cloak swishing in his wake, before you get a word in. You do as he says, if only because you accept that he doesn't need your help in a three to one fight and it's better to keep the kiddo as far away from stray blaster bolts as possible.</p><p>The market is in shambles, tables overturned in the haste to get out of harm's way, but otherwise empty. Down this street is the best way back to the ship, but it's much wider, provides much less cover, and it sets you on edge. You slip the knife back into your boot and exchange it for your blaster, thinking that you're more likely to be seen as a target for being the lone person out here anyway. Might as well equip the longer-range weapon. Might as well still be cautious.</p><p>You hear another round of blaster fire. Three shots for the three goons that were left. For a moment, you think that's it, problem over and done with, but then you hear another round of return fire, and it doesn't stop. Problem still ongoing. You only hesitate for a moment before your feet switch directions to double back and help. </p><p>You made an error though. Dumb. Short sighted. You didn't check the rooftops.</p><p>Three or four rounds graze past your body to the right, coming from behind you. Instinct kicks in. You dive for the nearest source of cover to your left, an overturned stall, knowing you won't make it to the ally way you were aiming for. The bolts don't stop, only get closer as you run, and for a second you aren't sure you'll make it, but somehow you do.</p><p>"You okay, kid?" you say to the bag at your side. He makes a gurgling noise, and maybe laughs a little bit. Glad someone's having fun, at least.</p><p>The table isn't big, isn't made out of durable materials, won't provide much protection for long. You have to do something about this and you have to do it now. Judging from the angle the bolts were coming in from, you know they were being fired from slightly above you, meaning someone stole your rooftop trick. When you peak your head out from behind the table, you can't see anything. The sun is in your eyes, and before long another bolt comes your way. You duck again, unable to return fire.</p><p>Footsteps from around the corner, to your left. Your shiny friend emerges, scans the street, blaster at the ready, before his helmet looks down, landing on you. He says, "what are you doing down there?" right as you say, "duck!" and in the next moment, a bolt hits him square in the chest plate. Ouch.</p><p>He falls back, disappearing from your view momentarily, and you worry until you see and hear a couple of shots fired from around the corner, aiming somewhere up and over the buildings across the street. With the heat off of you, you take the opportunity to turn around and try to locate the shooter, but no luck. You fire a few shots anyway, while the Mandalorian creeps in next to you, joining you under the flimsy cover.</p><p>"Three left, you said. Go back to the main drag, you said. I'll take care of the rest, you said."</p><p>"Can we <em>please</em> do this later?" </p><p>Another round of shots fire over you, hitting the building behind you, too close to the tops of your heads for comfort. At the next pause, you return fire, closer, you think, to narrowing down the position of this last shooter.</p><p>"Later isn't going to come if we can't bring this sniper down."</p><p>All he says in reply is, "keep your elbow in," and you think, in another situation, if he wasn't the only help you had in getting out of this alive, if the kid wasn't there and watching, you might have been mad enough to shoot him yourself. What a total pain in the ass.</p><p>You duck back down, and just in time. A bolt hits the top of the table right next to you, a crescent shape ebbing into the wood from the heat. You're vaguely aware of the Mandalorian next to you pressing a button or two on his bracer. He moves to fire again, but when he pulls the trigger, nothing happens.</p><p>He crouches back down, body close to yours, cursing. "I'm out. Give me your blaster."</p><p>"What? No! If you're out that's your problem."</p><p>"It's both of our problems. We don't have time for this." In one fluid movement, he grabs the blaster in your hand by the barrel and yanks before turning back around, aiming, firing. Then, he's still, unmoving, beside you. The world is quiet. After a moment, somewhere behind you, you think you hear a body thump to the ground.</p><p>"Couldn't have done that the first time?" You said. You venture a peek out from behind the table, then slowly rise when you confirm the coast is clear.</p><p>"Had to adjust the polarizing filter on my visor," he explains. You both ease out of the wreckage your cover had become. Another few seconds and you surely would have been toast.</p><p>When the sound of a final pair of footsteps registers, you're so over this fight that you barely even take a look at the enemy that rounds the corner behind you and to your left. You slip out your knife, the last remaining weapon on your body, and flick it in his direction. Perfect shot. He goes down. Everything is quiet again.</p><p>You turn your gaze back to your resident pain in the ass and hold your hand out. "Blaster," you demand.</p><p>He doesn't give it back to you right away, just hangs onto it while he stares you down, helmet shifting slightly, perhaps looking from you to the body you just dropped and back. "What did you say you did in the Rebellion again?"</p><p>"I didn't. Give me my blaster back."</p><p>"And I guess you're not going to tell me what you did after the Rebellion."</p><p>"I ran a cantina. Come on. Blaster."</p><p>"And in the years in between?"</p><p>You don't answer, just hold out your hand pointedly, and he finally relents, forced to be satisfied with the mystery for now. You holster the blaster at your hip, back where it belongs, and while you do so, the Mandalorian walks away. "Hey, where are you going?"</p><p>"Gotta check something."</p><p>You can't fathom what he wants to check and why he's okay with hanging around now when he was so adamant that you get back to the ship before, but you're intrigued and still fired up with adrenaline, and it's not like anything is on fire this time, so you figure there's no harm in following him.</p><p>"Any idea who all of those guys were?"</p><p>"Best guess, I'd say it was some local gang that got used to having the run on this town. They were all wearing the same crest sewn onto their gloves."</p><p>You hadn't noticed, kicking yourself inwardly for missing out on that detail. "And they were after you because you killed their buddy in the busiest street in town."</p><p>"They were after me because they don't understand the rules of a fair duel," he bites back, a bit of venom in his voice. You decide to drop the subject.</p><p>He uses a groove in the wall of the stone house as a foothold and boosts himself up onto the roof. You follow agilely, even with the baby in the bag bouncing on your hip. "What did you want to check out?"</p><p>"You said you saw twelve, right?"</p><p>"I mean, I think so. I didn't exactly have time to check my math before they scattered."</p><p>He stops by the sniper setup and the body responsible for almost taking you out earlier, helmet trained down as he scans the scene. "Notice anything missing?" he says. With the way he asks you, it sounds like he already knows the answer.</p><p>You look hard, hoping your observational skills won't let you down this time. Then you see it. "One of these things is not like the others," you reply. No gloves. No affiliation to the conflict below. "Then why shoot at us?"</p><p>"He shot at you first," he says. "And you were carrying the kid." He kneels down to search through the deceased's belongings. His hands land on a small, blinking object. He holds it up and curses.</p><p>"Tracking fob?"</p><p>"Yeah. Karga told me he sorted this out. Damn it." He sets the fob down and moves to stand, but something catches his eye. He looks through the bag again.</p><p>"Not to rush you or anything, but it might be a good idea to get a move on. Someone has probably radioed New Republic forces by now, and something tells me you won't be too happy if we run into them on our way out."</p><p>"Just a sec. Found a puck."</p><p>He rises with the new object in hand, smashing the fob on the ground with his boot as he does.</p><p>"Thought you said the Empire didn't give out pucks for the kid?"</p><p>"I thought so too."</p><p>But when he activates the puck to read the information on file, it's not the kid's face staring back at you. It's yours.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Pre-flight checks and take off procedures are a rhythm that is soothing to you when the rest of the universe has been knocked askew. You had argued about leaving the planet now, of course. You hadn't been able to identify the original problem that started the fire, and the irrigation system still--still!--wasn't functional. But he had insisted.</p><p>"We'll make a pit stop on the next habitable planet available, okay? I promise."</p><p>He had never made a promise to you before. It was weird.</p><p>"This ship is nowhere near up to flying standards," you replied. The thought of flying in it made you nervous, but maybe not as nervous as the thought of sticking around to fix it. His next words echo your internal fears.</p><p>"Between the gang, the bounty hunter, and New Republic forces coming in for cleanup, there's too much heat on us to stick around right now. Strap in. I'm not negotiating."</p><p>You were almost glad that he's around to make the tough calls, even as you're unnerved by the way he's been on edge since he found the puck. You can't tell what he's thinking. You're not sure what his next move is going to be. Worst of all, you don't know where you stand with him right now. He puts the Crest into hyperspace, sets course for a planet a half hour or so away, then immediately turns to you with a stare that has you feeling pinned down and scrutinized. </p><p>"I'm going to ask you again."</p><p>You cut him off. "I already told you. I have no idea why there's a bounty on my head. Like I said, I had to borrow some money to open the cantina, and I ditched my debtor when I took the job with you. But I had already paid off most of the loan by then. There wasn't enough left on it to justify putting a bounty like that on my head. And I'm technically not even late on my payment yet. I swear."</p><p>"You're sure?"</p><p>You nod earnestly. "Yes, I'm sure. I have no idea why someone would want me, dead or alive."</p><p>He curses under his breath, then leaves the cockpit and heads down to the hull. You follow him, if only because you're nervous, because you don't know what to do, what to say, where to be, how to deal. And you don't think he does either. And you're not sure what that means for the both of you.</p><p>For one thing, did he trust you now? Did he believe when you said you didn't know why there was a price on your head? Could he be imagining all of the awful things you might have done to warrant such consequences?</p><p>For another thing, did you trust him? Now that he knew what you were worth, were you valuable enough to keep around? Would he hand you over and collect the bounty himself?</p><p>Maybe that's why you start filling the air with your nervous voice, running through a list of tasks for yourself, clueing him into your plans as you watched him put away weapons he had previously dumped on the ground in his rush to get in the air, weapons he could easily turn on you in a heartbeat. </p><p>Your eyes flick around the ship as you run through your to do list. "I'll have to shut off the power to get into the electrical issues, but I'll do that as soon as we land. And I'll fix the irrigation system. I can change out the engine oil too, if you want. And I can clean out the control board so the buttons don't stick anymore. Anyone else would charge you extra for that, but I'll do it for free. And once the diagnostics finally finished I got a whole list of everything else that's wrong with the ship, so I'll tackle all of that too, no problem. And, hey, if you wanted to knock my pay back to fifteen percent, or, hell, I'd take ten--"</p><p>"Relax," he says. It comes out forceful, more like a command than you think he wanted it to, but it does the job, gets you to shut up. When you don't say anything, he glances back at you, and something in your face makes him turn around to face you fully. "Hey. Relax," he says again.</p><p>You take one deep breath, then another. "I can't," you say in an honest whisper. Your eyes travel from his helmet to the holster at his hip, now with a newly loaded blaster. He understands your gaze, understands what you mean by it.</p><p>He says your name once, but you don't respond. He says it again, so you look back up at his visor, at him.  "I'm not going to turn you in."</p><p>You want to release the tension that has built up in your body, but you can't.</p><p>So he repeats himself. "I'm not going to turn you in. No one's going to turn you in. I promise."</p><p>The words still aren't computing, and for some reason, you feel like you have to defend yourself from everything he must now be thinking about you. For some reason, it's imperative that this not change the way he sees you. You don't want to break whatever it was that you had been building together. You start running your mouth without consulting your brain again, and this time it's even harder to make sense of the thoughts spilling from your tongue. "Whatever you think I did, whatever terrible thing you're thinking I did to earn this, I swear I didn't do it. I don't have any idea. I've made some enemies, I've done things I'm not proud of, I've pissed off the Empire and the New Republic and a whole bunch of other people, I'll admit to all of that, but nothing, I'm telling you, nothing I did could make that price on my head make sense. I'm not some secretly awful person that you wouldn't want around the kid. You have to believe me. I'm not lying, I swear, I--"</p><p>He says your name again, sharply, and then again, gently, and it's enough to shut you up, but not enough to stop your heart from beating wildly, panicking with the rest of your body. You don't realize how hard you're breathing until he remarks on it, tells you to take a deep breath, to calm down. Then he steps towards you, closes the distance, and puts his hands on your shoulders with a firm, grounding squeeze.</p><p>"Look at me," he says, and you do, trying to meet his eyes through the visor. "I'm not turning you in. I'm not letting anyone else turn you in. You're safe here. Understand? You're safe here. I promise."</p><p>And for some reason, against your better instincts, you will yourself to believe him.</p><p>"And I believe you when you say you didn't do anything to bring this on you. I know you. I know you're a good person. You're the kind of person that would help a tin can like me out of a tough spot with the Imps, or help me fix my ship without expecting anything in return. You're the kind of person who would protect a total stranger's kid, even if it meant you got hurt in the process. Hell, you threw yourself into harm's way today just because I did something stupid and got myself into a fight I couldn't immediately get myself out of. I don't pay you to do that. That was your choice. So, yeah, I believe you. More than that, I trust you. So trust me, okay? You're safe here. I'm not going to let anyone turn you in."</p><p>You are a swirling mess of nerves and fears and emotions, so you aren't quite sure what to do with the twist in your heart that announces itself after you hear his words, and you are doubly unsure of what to do with the prick of tears behind your eyes, the tightening of your throat. You lower your gaze again, stare at his chest plate instead of his visor, and take in a shaky breath. You hope he doesn't hear how close you are to losing it.</p><p>But he's of the observant sort. So he says, "Hey, now, none of that." And suddenly he's pulling you into an awkward, uncomfortable hug. It's a mess of beskar and blaster holsters and sweat and your stupid, shaking hands, but you return it anyway, wrap your arms around him anyway, because he's solid and he's safe and he feels like--</p><p>He feels like home.</p><p>The one thing you know about home, any sort of home, is that it's best not to linger, best not to outstay your welcome. You give yourself a moment though, try to relax in his arms, try to collect the pieces of yourself that are threatening to shatter at the slightest hint that someone actually cares about you for more than what you can do for them, the glancing realization that you might actually belong here, that you are doing more than just passing through, never mind the fear you feel at the new information that there are forces out there angling to take all of this away from you. So you don't linger in his embrace, don't get too comfortable with his arms around you, but you do take a moment, a breath, two or three, committing the feeling to memory, the way his gloved hand tangles itself in your hair, the way you can feel his chest expand in time with his breathing, as if his lungs are pressing into yours, before easing away. When he hesitates for the barest hint of a second before letting you go, you try to convince yourself you imagined it.</p><p>But still, he doesn't move away from you completely. His hands on your shoulders again, holding you in place. continuing to ground you. "You're safe here. Tell me you understand."</p><p>"I understand," you say, and you think you might be telling the truth.</p><p>"Good." He drops his hands from your shoulders, maybe at a loss for what to do next, before deciding to finish organizing his weapons cache. With his back facing you, he affords you some privacy to rub the last signs of emotional pain and panic out of your eyes. "Now, let's do some math here, okay?"</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>"I mean that you were a sitting duck in that cantina for, what, three or four months after I first met you? If anyone had wanted to, they absolutely could have tried to pick you off.  Tried, mind you, not succeeded. I have faith that you would have held them off."</p><p>The abrupt switch back to business jars you as much as the unabashed compliment, but it also helps untangle the knot in your stomach ever so slightly, helps you get your breathing back under control. "So what does that mean?"</p><p>"It means that, unless there's something either of us is forgetting about, this bounty probably wasn't on your head until you came aboard my ship. Which means that this bounty probably has something to do with me."</p><p>The way he says it is weird, like he's trying to egg you on, get under your skin in some sort of teasing, playful way. He's teed you up, you realize. He wants you to take a shot. If feels weird to be joking around again, improper, almost, but you try anyway. "Self-centered much?"</p><p>"Yeah, you're right. It's probably the kid's fault then." You turn to where the child is sleeping in his cradle. Little bugger somehow passed out to the sounds of all the commotion going on in the market. "Meaning," he starts again, trying to connect the dots with you, "that someone probably put a price on your head in order to get to him. Which, in turn, means that this isn't anything you did. If anything, it's probably my fault. We must have been spotted together somewhere."</p><p>You shrug. "It was bound to happen eventually. Could have even been that guy that blew up my cantina." Feeling a bit more like yourself, you walk over and sit on a crate next to the weapons cache. You feel okay to face him again. "If you're going to beat yourself up about anything, beat yourself up for not having a working fire extinguisher on board."</p><p>"I've been busy," he says simply, and you realize he's baiting you again. </p><p>Well, if he asked for it. "Busy for two entire years? Because that's how long your fire extinguisher has been expired. Two entire years. I can't believe I'm the first technician to catch it."</p><p>"Whenever I bring the ship in for repairs, there are normally other priorities."</p><p>"Like what?"</p><p>"I don't know. Blew out the entire engine once," he says casually.</p><p>"Maker. It's a miracle this thing is still running."</p><p>"Yeah, well, I've got a good tech on retainer. Come on, should be time to drop out of hyper soon." He closes up the cabinet and makes for the cockpit. You follow. The kid stays in the hull, secure in his cradle. </p><p>As the two of you sit down, the panic in your gut subsides and a different sort of heaviness settles in your bones. It feels likes the weight of having so much to lose, like an unbalanced tally in your head, like gratitude, maybe.</p><p>"Thanks for, uh, not turning me in I guess." There's so much more you should say, so much more that you are thankful for, but you don't have the words.</p><p>He shrugs it off. "Kid would miss you too much if you weren't around."</p><p>The ship falls out of hyperspace, and the inertia pulls you forward a bit. You don't really notice it. You're too busy looking at the endless boundaries of space, the stars that snap into place. You feel like something else has snapped into place too, but you can decide on what, exactly, it is.</p><p>Your new friend is a pain in the ass. You wouldn't trade him or his weird green kid for anything.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Me after writing 6.5 chapters of relationship building: Can they hug now? Is it too soon?</p><p>ALSO: While I have you here, I wondered if I could have your attention for just a bit longer to raise awareness among fellow Star Wars fans about a shitty thing Disney is doing. </p><p>Alan Dean Foster is a writer who wrote a lot of Star Wars books back when Star Wars was owned by Lucasfilm. Under his contract with Lucasfilm, he was supposed to earn royalties on the books every year. His books are still selling, so he deserves to make money off of his work, as per his contract.</p><p>When Disney bought Lucasfilm, they acquired these books as well as the responsibility to honor the royalties the books made. Unfortunately, they have not done so. Instead, they are keeping the money and refusing to pay out.</p><p>This is alarming for several reasons. For one, Alan Dean Foster was recently diagnosed with cancer and should not have to deal with this. For another, this sets a terrible precedent for the future of publishing and, if upheld, could result in many more authors losing their rightfully earned pay in the future. This is a really awful thing Disney is doing and I'm really mad about it.</p><p>You can read more about the Disney's refusal to pay ADF <a href="https://www.sfwa.org/2020/11/18/disney-must-pay/?fbclid=IwAR1yEa4l2l7p3FR5IbDoxw6M6LtthPMbmHLItFDpMuX3NWobOXPKSjjVEvk">here.</a></p><p>You can sign a petition <a href="https://www.change.org/p/the-walt-disney-company-make-disney-pay-alan-dean-foster/sign">here.</a></p><p>And if you wanted to make some noise about this on Twitter or another social media platform of your choice using the hashtag #DisneyMustPay, I would be super duper grateful.</p><p>Thanks for reading, ya'll. I mean it.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Theseus's Ship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Hey, come on, don't you trust me?"</p><p>"To take care of your own personal wellbeing? You? The person who actively jumped off of a building multiple times today in order to land on top of armed gang members? Not a chance."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Chapter title is a reference to a philosophical question that asks if something, (say, a ship? a person?) remains fundamentally the same object even if all of its parts are replaced. It's a ~metaphor~ or something idk.</p><p>Should probably also add that most (all?) chapter titles have been modified lyrics taken from either The Oh Hellos or Rainbow Kitten Surprise. Could I be listening to two more wildly different bands with wildly different vibes at the moment? idk, probably, but it'd be hard. </p><p>Anyway, you guys are gonna be so mad at me for where I end this chapter lmaooo</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's like you were up there just to watch.</p><p>Everything was fine until it wasn't. The Razor Crest dipped into the atmosphere, started slowing down, groaned a little bit in a mildly alarming way, sure, but that was normal, would stay normal until you had enough time to properly get under the hood. It even gave you the standard shake it always did when it was slowing down, the hot but functional mess it always was, until Mando leveled it off so it wasn't coming in too sharp.</p><p>And then the beeps. The alarms. The blinking red lights.</p><p>"Hang on. This going to be a rough one," he says, and normally you would berate him for stating something so terribly obvious, but you are too busy wondering if this is how you are going to die.</p><p>Way too hot. The ship comes in way too hot, hot enough so that you see the tails of flames catching the ship's exterior, hot enough that you can feel the heat of it on your skin, and everything in you is screaming to do something about it, hands fidgeting as if the control panel was in reach, but on the Razor Crest, the co-pilots chair was named so more out of tradition than out of any sort of functionality. You are too far away and have too much good sense in you to undo your seatbelt to get closer to the control panel. It's up to the bucket head.</p><p>The landing is rough. The Razor Crest draws skid marks, marking up the land of the barren planet beneath you, digging the straps securing you to the chair into your body in a way you know will show up as bruises later. The landing rattles you, makes your head bounce up and down, and when you finally come to a slow, stuttering stop, it takes a second for you to process the situation.</p><p>In the pilot's chair, the Mandalorian takes a slow, steady breath before turning to you and asking, "are you okay?" It's a very dumb question to ask someone who has just experienced a 2nd near death experience within the last handful of hours. You much preferred your usual rate of about once a week.</p><p>You check in with yourself before answering. Once you find you have all your limbs, all your fingers and toes, and more or less your normal lung capacity and standard anxiety-induced nausea, you decide that, yes, you are okay. And also extremely pissed.</p><p>"Don't fly the ship, he says. Don't crash the ship, he says. You don't fly the ship, I fly the ship, he says."</p><p>Once he understands where this is going and is satisfied that you aren't actively bleeding out, he works on unbuckling himself.</p><p>"Is that what you call flying? Is this the general amount of competency needed to fly the Razor Crest?" You're half-yelling now, partly because you still haven't calmed down from the initial excitement, and partly because he's walking away from you and you want to make sure he hears you. You follow him down the ladder, all the while making your thoughts known. "Because if that's the sort of standard you have for letting someone fly your ship, I don't know why you don't just let the kid fly! He could have landed better than that!"</p><p>Mando heads straight for the cradle containing the kid in question, and when he opens the hatch, there's a pair of distressed eyes staring back at him, a little frown looking foreign on his sad green face.</p><p>Seeing the little one so stressed out somehow makes your own stress melt away. You watch your armored crash-test-dummy pick the kiddo up and press him to his chest, rocking him gently. Any other choice words you had about his landing skills faded from your mind.</p><p>Seeming to sense this, Mando is finally willing to engage with you. His voice is quieter than normal, mindful of the kid. "Can you fix it?"</p><p>You close your eyes for a second, shifting gears from passenger to mechanic. The ship started freaking out as soon the reverse thrusters were engaged. Combined with the electrical problems from before, it could point to anything, but your gut said an automatic shut-off due to overheating might be the culprit--which, you guess, was preferable to the alternative of another fire onboard, given the irrigation system was non-existent. So all of that combined meant there might have been a coolant problem. Or maybe ventilation. Or maybe a dozen other things, but you would start there and work your way down the list. And the ship's error reports should be able to help you out.</p><p>When you open your eyes again, he's looking at you expectantly, or maybe looking at you like he's expecting you to yell at him again. Instead, you center yourself.</p><p>"I'll do my best."</p><p> </p><p>Your initial survey of the damage pointed to things being not as bad as you had thought. Of course, they were bad. One engine compromised, electrical problems up and down the ship, a fuel leak, a filtration system that should have been replaced eons ago, a seriously scratched up hull, and the aforementioned failed fire suppression system, but it was overall structurally stable, intact, had sufficient plumbing and a heater that would run alright once the electrical problems were solved for good. You had enough food and water for several days. You wouldn't die out here, at least not from the elements. You also wouldn't be leaving this rock anytime soon.</p><p>"How long?"</p><p>"Three days, at least. Maybe two if I don't sleep."</p><p>"But you can fix it?"</p><p>You shrug. "I'd give myself 80/20 odds. This planet is populated, right?"</p><p>"Yeah, but we're far enough away from any settlements. No one should give us any trouble. Hey, what's with that face? Why are you frowning? That's good news."</p><p>"That's only good news if we don't need any spare parts."</p><p>He curses. "What do we need?"</p><p>"For one thing, one of your micro-compressors is fried."</p><p>"We don't need another one. I have a spare."</p><p>"You think I didn't check? If you had one, it's long gone. Or probably the one that just gave out on you."</p><p>Big sigh, as is tradition. "Fine. That all we need?"</p><p>You laugh. "Far from it. I made a list. We just have to figure out where we can get all this stuff from. Or maybe send a distress signal for help. Although, to be honest, I'm pretty sure that's another thing that's broken."</p><p>"Nav Comp found a town East of here. It'll be a whole day round trip."</p><p>"Better start walking, then. Leave the kid here. I'll keep an eye on him and get started on what I can."</p><p>"Okay, boss."</p><p>"Get some motor oil too. We'll need a lot. And <em>don't</em> get the cheap stuff. I'll be able to tell."</p><p>"Anything else?"</p><p>"Don't call me boss. Oh, and, grab a box of cookies too. A big one."</p><p>"For the kid?"</p><p>"Yeah. Sure. For the kid."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're outside, on your back, under the belly of the Crest, tracing a string of problematic wires down and around the ship. Mando said he would be back by now, but he wasn't. It would have you concerned if you had any extra brain space that wasn't entirely wrapped up by the ship or by the kid, who keeps trying to put rocks in his mouth. After the third or fourth time, as the sun sets and darkness creeps in, you give him a flashlight and tell him to hold it steady. He doesn't, but you can still see what you need to about half the time, and at the very least it distracts him from any other would-be choking hazards.</p><p>"Just let me replace this last wiring loom and tighten everything back up. Then I'll get you something to eat. Okay buddy?"</p><p>He sticks the lightbulb end of the flashlight in his mouth in response, which means you have to drop your wrench and pluck the flashlight out, then back into his arms. "What did I say about eating that? If you have to try to chew on it, start from the other end."</p><p>He's got this cranky little look on his face that reminds you, inexplicably, of his father.</p><p>You're about to stick your tongue out at him--a very mature and appropriate response--when you hear a set of footsteps from not far off. It's getting too dark to place them, and you're wedged too far under the Crest to see who they belong to, but when they stop in front of you and give you two gentle kicks to your own left boot, you have some idea. Still, it pays to be cautious.</p><p>Your free hand goes to the blaster you placed strategically at your side and picks it up. "Identify yourself! Legally, if you're not the Mandalorian, you have to tell me. Be advised that I am armed and will shoot your ankles if you do not comply."</p><p>"Very funny," comes a very unamused modulated voice.</p><p>"What took you so long? It's late."</p><p>He doesn't answer, just drops something, a box, at your feet. You place the blaster back on the ground and grab the flashlight from the kid's hands again, aiming the light at the new object. </p><p>"Fuck yes!"</p><p>Now that the child's eyes have been drawn to the new object too, he lets out a squeal of delight and runs toward it as fast as his little legs will carry him. Figures he would find a way to get his hands on the brand new box of cookies before you.</p><p>"Hey kid," Mando greets as the lil' squash comes into view. "How was he?"</p><p>"Grumpy. That's my fault, though. I haven't gotten him anything to eat in a few hours. Too wrapped up in this."</p><p>"I'll take care of it."</p><p>"Thanks."</p><p>"Where do you want the rest of this stuff?"</p><p>"You can bring all that inside. I'll go through it as soon as I'm done with this."</p><p>"Be okay without your assistant for a while?"</p><p>"I'll manage." You watch what you can with your narrow beam of light as a gloved hand picks up the child--who has a death grip on your--the--box of cookies. Then something else catches your eye. "Woah. Wait a sec."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Who. Or. What. Is on your boots?"</p><p>"What do you think took me so long?"</p><p>"Maker. I thought you said this place was safe."</p><p>You hear a little shuffle of beskar and baggage, like he just shrugged. "It's a little safer now." </p><p>"You better not track any of that into the hull."</p><p>"Wouldn't dream of it." There's a little bit of a fussy noise from the child, and you think you hear Mando hush him softly before saying, "Gonna get this guy some food and use the 'fresher real quick. Don't stay out to much longer. The cold comes in quick on planets like these."</p><p>"Sure thing--oh, wait. You can use the refresher, but you're not going to get any hot water right now."</p><p>"Don't tell me the water heater is busted too."</p><p>"No, but I had to turn it off to get to the bottom of the electrical issues. I'm arms deep in this right now and don't feel like getting electrocuted."</p><p>Quietly, you think you make out a bitter "perfect," but his next words are louder, more fully directed at you. "Fair enough. I'll make it work."</p><p>"Lights are out too, but there's a spare flashlight somewhere over there." You point to your pile of tools with your left foot. </p><p>"Won't be a problem," he says, and then his footsteps are fading towards the ramp. Right. Helmet. Probably has some sort of night vision.</p><p>"Now wouldn't that be handy?" you say to yourself as you situate the flashlight where you need it to be on a pile of rocks. Back to work.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're not sure how much time has passed when he's back at your feet again--the big grouch, not the little grouch. You know you said you would be in soon, but soon is relative, and the ship's problems are many. As much as you hate to admit it, though, you've discovered he's right about the cold. It's not Hoth, mind you, but your fingers are numb, your ears hurt, and you think you can see your breath in the light beam in front of you.</p><p>Another gentle set of kicks to your boot. "You almost done in there?"</p><p>"Depends. Did the kid eat all the cookies?"</p><p>"He left a few for you."</p><p>"Keep 'em safe, for me, will you?"</p><p>There's a pause before he speaks again. "I thought you were joking about working through the night."</p><p>You thought you were too. But if you stop now, it's going to be harder to start up again tomorrow morning. "Just give me another hour or two."</p><p>"Your fingers are going to fall off. Come on. At least take a break."</p><p>"The moment I am unable to successfully operate these pliers, I will come back inside. Promise."</p><p>"Not good enough."</p><p>"Hey, come on, don't you trust me?"</p><p>"To take care of your own personal wellbeing? You? The person who actively jumped off of a building multiple times today in order to land on top of armed gang members? Not a chance."</p><p>That gets a scoff from you, but only because he's kind of right. You don't answer immediately, opting to concentrate on a tricky bit of wiring instead, but then a thought dawns on you, makes you feel bad. "You're not waiting for hot water, are you?"</p><p>"No. Already rinsed off. Why?"</p><p>"Oh. Then what are you doing out here?"</p><p>"Making sure my technician doesn't freeze to death," he says like it's obvious. "Trust me, I've run the numbers. If you die of hypothermia tonight, it would be really inconvenient for me."</p><p>"Wow. Didn't know you were such a big sap. Wait 'til I tell everyone I know."</p><p>Now it's his turn to scoff. "That threat only works if you actually have other people to talk to. Pretty sure the kid and I are your only friends." Ouch. That one's a little too close to home.</p><p>You don't let it show, though, knowing he didn't mean anything by it. Instead, you take in an exaggerated gasp of air, feigning shock and scandal. "You and I are friends now? Say it ain't so!"</p><p>"Alright. That's it."</p><p>You're about to ask him what, exactly, he means, but then you feel two hands encircle your ankles, starting to pull you out, and you understand precisely what's going on here. You don't like it. "Wait! Wait wait wait! Stop!" </p><p>He doesn't let go, but he does stop pulling, if only to check in. "What now?"</p><p>"My arm is completely tangled up in this wiring. If you pull now you're going to yank a bunch of the ship's guts out and make me have to redo all of this tomorrow. Just give me a couple of minutes."</p><p>"You have twenty seconds."</p><p>"Mando!"</p><p>"Nineteen."</p><p>You whisper some choice swear words to yourself as you realize how serious he is, then frantically work on detangling yourself. When he reaches seven, you're done with the wires, but you still have more work to do.</p><p>"Okay, okay, hang on! One more minute. I have to seal this up, otherwise it's not safe to turn the power back on."</p><p>"Just hurry up. It's cold out here."</p><p>"Then go inside."</p><p>"If I go inside without you, the chances of you staying out here all night skyrocket."</p><p>"You know, I'm starting to think your impatience is the reason this ship is falling apart in the first place."</p><p>You can almost feel him rolling his eyes at you, even through the metal panels of the ship, through his layers of beskar. "Please don't start on this."</p><p> "Really, I thought bounty hunters were supposed to be good at waiting. All that time spent tracking quarries and all."</p><p>"Are you done yet?"</p><p>"Almost, just have another couple of bolts to--"</p><p>"Good enough."</p><p>And then he's pulling you out again, freeing you from beneath the ship for the first time in hours. The cold hits you first, the sharpness of the temperature you were ever-so-slightly shielded from in the cocoon of your breath and sweat. Then your eyes adjust. The first thing you see is a shadow over you, stepping closer to your upper body and offering a hand. But then you look past him, up into the sky, the stars, and something about the sight knocks you breathless.</p><p>Your hand takes his, but it's automatic, unthinking on your part. He hauls you to your feet, leaves you standing closer to his body then you would on a normal day--a day where you hadn't found out the sheer amount of credits on your head, a day where you hadn't crash landed on a boreal wasteland. You don't mind it, though. You're too busy keeping an eye on the sky, gaze transfixed. Absentmindedly, you tell him, "it's beautiful out here," as if he doesn't already know.</p><p>"And to think you might have missed it," is all he says in reply. He's not looking at the sky. He's looking at you, giving you a once over in the dark, patting some dirt from your shoulders, taking the wrench you're still holding out of your hand and tossing it towards the toolbox.</p><p>"Hey, wait," you say, tearing your gaze from the sky and towards the general direction of the thump of your wrench. It's dark out. You left your flashlight under the ship. You can't see as well as he can. That's why he sees what you're doing before you do, is able to take your wrist in his hand before you can get too far.</p><p>"Leave it. Come on. Inside." And then he's got a hand on your shoulder, directing you to the ramp, before it travels down to your lower back, giving you a gentle push. "This'll all be here tomorrow."</p><p>"What about whatever was on your boots?"</p><p>"Believe me when I say I made sure that thing was dead three times over and without any friends before I came back here. Now pick up the pace, will you? I warmed up a mug of broth for you, and if it's cold by the time you get there, that's your fault."</p><p>Your neck is still craned up, looking at the sky, when his words reach you, the implication of the actions he took to care for you tonight carefully hidden by the forced annoyance in his tone. It makes you smile. You wonder if he can see it, glowing on your face in the dark.</p><p> </p><p>You're back at it again just before the sun peeks over the horizon, enjoying the hazy gray of the pre-dawn light even as the ground feels icy cold beneath your back. You had put on an extra couple of layers today, but it wasn't quite enough to ward against the morning chill.</p><p>Time passes. You follow the wiring to the other side of the ship, feet now sticking out in the opposite direction. Like this, you're connected to the ship in a way you hadn't been before, and you can hear, or maybe feel, the thump of footsteps from the inhabitants inside, walking back and forth, pacing maybe, or looking for something, someone. It's why you aren't surprised when the footsteps leave the ship, walk around to where you were last night, pause, walk around to the other side of the ship, where you are now, pause, then two light kicks to your boot.</p><p>"Tell me you didn't come back out here again as soon as I fell asleep."</p><p>"I tried, but I couldn't find my flashlight in the dark."</p><p>He says your name with a tinge of--annoyance? Disappointment?</p><p>"Hey! I'm kidding. I've only been out here for an hour or so. Couldn't sleep." Too many nightmares.</p><p>"Did you at least eat something?"</p><p>"There are less cookies in the box then there were before."</p><p>"Kid will be heartbroken."</p><p>"These are trying times," you agree solemnly. "He'll be fine though. Pretty sure he ate half the box last night."</p><p>"That wasn't entirely the kid."</p><p>You snort at the admission, the picture it paints of the fearsome Mandalorian, sneaking snacks before bed. "Didn't know you had a sweet tooth."</p><p>"Wanted to see what all the fuss was about," is all he says in explanation. "What can I do to help?"</p><p>"Uh…" you say to stall. The question short circuits your mind. Normally, you were the one to fix the ship while he went out to do the tracking and shooting. You almost preferred it that way, to be honest. You weren't really a group project kind of person. But he didn't have anything else to do here. Not right now. And there was nothing about your interactions with him thus far that would lead you to believe he would sit back and make you do all this work yourself, no matter what you argued. "What do you know how to do?" The question comes out a little more condescending than you intend, and you inwardly wince at your tone. "Sorry, that came out wrong."</p><p>"I'm not clueless, you know. A friend and I put this whole ship back together from scratch when some Jawas raided it for parts not too long before you came on board."</p><p>Jawas. That mad so much sense. You were wondering how this much sand got into the internals. "Not to be overly harsh or anything, but, uh, I would not brag about that repair job right now if I were you."</p><p>He's silent for a moment, and you wonder if you went too far with your honesty. Then he says, "Point taken. Seriously though. Let me help."</p><p>"You want to tackle the microprocessor?"</p><p>"Sure."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He comes back looking for you a few hours later, when the sun has risen higher in the sky and you've slid out from under the belly of the Crest, sitting on top of it now instead, hands deep inside of an open panel. In your peripheral vision, you watch him peer under the ship, looking for you.</p><p>You're tempted to wait and see how much longer it takes for him to find you, but opt to take pity on him instead. "Up here," you call, and his helmet snaps up and lands a gaze on you.</p><p>"Still working on the wires?"</p><p>"That's an ongoing process," you say. "Fixing the fuel leak now. What's up?"</p><p>"Got a free hand?"</p><p>"What for?"</p><p>He holds something up. You peer at it until you can make out a ration bar. You hadn't realized how hungry you were.</p><p>"One sec!" you say, before carefully laying the wrench and tape down on the roof of the ship, where they won't fall down into the hard to reach nooks of the open panel below you. You nod back at him and he tosses the ration to you. "Thanks! How'd replacing the microprocessor go?"</p><p>"I'll test it once we turn the power back on, but it should be fine. I'm working on the ventilator now." </p><p>"Can you even fit down there?"</p><p>"I'll manage."</p><p>"If you say so. How's the kid?"</p><p>"Getting into all the wires he shouldn't be getting into," he says gruffly.</p><p>"You can bring him out here if you want," you offer. "I can watch him."</p><p>It doesn't take much twisting of the arm to get him to agree, and you can only imagine the frustrations the little guy has caused him today. It was fine. You've handled him while working on the ship before. You could do it again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Okay. You understand now.</p><p>The little guy is antsy. You've spent too long in one place. Or maybe he ate too much sugar. You aren't sure.</p><p>But you do know that you have a problem on your hands by the second time he wanders too close to the open panel and almost falls down.</p><p>So you need a solution. By this time, the sun has warmed the air a bit, and you've worked up a sweat with all the wrenching and screwing and what have you. You've shed two of your layers, and you use them to make a little nest where the kid can chill. Maybe even nap, if you're lucky.</p><p>"Stay. Okay? You hear me? Don't leave my shirts."</p><p>He blinks at you, and you let yourself believe that you've come to an understanding.  </p><p>That is, until a minute or two later when he wanders too close again, when you're too absorbed by your task to notice until theres a distinctive metal clanging coming from the depts of the ship.</p><p>Panic runs through your veins until you realize that the kid is right next to you, so he wasn't the one that fell. Irritation replaces your panic when you realize the little asshole must have very purposely pushed your wrench into the guts of the ship.</p><p>Well. This was a development.</p><p>You want to yell at him, but the way he looks up at you and gives you a cute little laugh, you can't manage it. Instead you say, with a great deal a patience, "I needed that. You know I needed that, right?"</p><p>Another laugh. What a fun game this all is to him.</p><p>"Then why'd you push it where I can reach it?"</p><p>He blinks, tilts his head, laughs again.</p><p>"Yeah, okay," you say definitely. "No more cookies for you. Come on, you're going back inside."</p><p>But then he's closing his eyes, stretching his hand out, and you keep still, watching curiously until something at the edge of your vision moves, until something heavy and metallic is dropped back, safe and sound, on the roof of the Razor Crest.</p><p>Your wrench.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"My babysitting shift is officially over. He's your problem now."</p><p>Your footsteps are heavy on the ship's ramp as you meet the kid's dad in the hull. You have trouble locating him for a second, until his helmet pokes out one of the open floor panels. "What'd he do now?"</p><p>"He's a tiny little jerk. And a weirdo. And, hey, did you know he could move things with his mind?"</p><p>"Oh. Is that all?"</p><p>Oh. Is. That. All?</p><p>His casual tone makes you sputter. "You knew?"</p><p>"Yeah. It comes in handy sometimes. What did he move?"</p><p>"My wrench. After he very purposely kicked it over the edge."</p><p>He laughs openly at you.</p><p>"You seem very calm about this."</p><p>"It's a long story. I'll explain later. Here, I'll take him." Mando jumps up from the floor compartment he's working in, and that's when you realize he doesn't have any of his armor on, helmet excluded.</p><p>You take a reflexive step back. "Uh."</p><p>"What?" He starts walking towards you, arms reached out for the kid, and the movement makes you calm down a smidge. Clearly he's okay with whatever is happening here.</p><p>"Nothing, I just…am I allowed to see you without your armor on?"</p><p>"It's fine." You hand over the kid, who has fallen asleep somewhere between rattling your nerves and now. </p><p>"Okay," is all you say in return. You watch him place the kid in the hammock in his bunk, mystified by the pile of beskar you catch a glimpse of in the corner. "I was wondering how you were going to fit down there."</p><p>He shrugs, and it's amazing to see his shoulders move without the pauldrons that are normally attached. "I used to have to do all of this without any help, you know."</p><p>"Yeah, and what a great job you've done. By the way, are you using the welder? I'm gonna need it in a sec."</p><p>He jumps back down into the floor, starts working on whatever he was doing when you came in. "You sure that's a good idea?"</p><p>"What's that supposed to mean?"</p><p>"Operating heavy machinery while sleep deprived is normally frowned upon."</p><p>You spot the tool you're looking for among the mess of equipment laid out on the floor and pick it up. "The welder's not that heavy."</p><p>"You know what I mean."</p><p>"I'll be fine. I was working on less sleep than this the first time you led a shootout into my bar."</p><p>"Maker, don't tell me things like that."</p><p>You've found you rather like getting on his nerves like this, though. "Besides, even if I do lose a finger from the welder, it won't matter too much. I mean, that's why we have ten, right?"</p><p>"Not funny."</p><p>"Kid would have laughed," you say over your shoulder as you head back outside the ship.</p><p>"Walking. Disaster," he calls back after you. You don't dignify that with a response.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You come back inside for a bite to eat a bit later, determined to prove that you can care for yourself in some capacity. He's replacing the floor panels while you chew on your ration.</p><p>"What else is there to do?" he asks.</p><p>"External electrics should be good, but I want to give the internals another look. And the irrigation, the thing that started this whole mess, but I'll do that tomorrow."</p><p>"You finished out there?"</p><p>"Not even close, but maybe tomorrow. By the way, has the left engine been stalling at all? I think I'm about to uncover another mess of problems."</p><p>He sighs.</p><p> </p><p>Later. The stars are out again. You like the view better from up here, by the engine, but you're also more exposed to the wind, sending chills down your spine.</p><p>Footsteps. They stop below you.</p><p>"You're a lot harder to drag inside when you're up there. Can you just make this one easy on me? Come in without a fight?"</p><p>You try to answer, but you're holding the flashlight in between your teeth, so it comes out as unintelligible. You free one of your hands and take it out of your mouth. "When have you known me to do anything without putting up a fight?"</p><p>"You're ridiculous."</p><p>"Yup," you agree. "A couple more minutes, I swear."</p><p>"I can literally see you shivering."</p><p>You had put your layers back on hours ago, but it still wasn't enough. "Just go inside. I'll be there soon." </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're a big fat liar and the Mandalorian knows it.</p><p>Before his footsteps come to a complete stop below you, you start talking. "Alright, alright, I'm sealing it up now. See?"</p><p>He doesn't say anything, so you look down to see just exactly how grumpy his body language indicates he is, but he surprises you. Bottle in one hand, two glasses in the other. He raises it in invitation.</p><p>"You should have started with that," you say.</p><p>"If you're not inside in three minutes, I'm drinking the rest of it without you," is all he responds with before his footsteps head back inside.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're inside in two, turning the power back on thirty seconds after that.</p><p>"You've got motor oil on your…everywhere," he says from the bottom of the ladder as he watches you at the main control panel.</p><p>You look down, seeing your body in the light for the first time in a while. "Fuck, you're right. Let me change out of these, I'll be there in a sec."</p><p>"It's on your face too."</p><p>"Yikes, that's embarrassing," you deadpan. "Guess you can't take me anywhere."</p><p>He shrugs, then throws something at you something. You catch it. The blindfold. "Even the cockpit has a dress code."</p><p>You give him a wry smile. "Give me a minute to clean up. I won't be long, I super promise this time."</p><p>"You're inside now," he says, shrugging again. "That's all I wanted from this deal."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He doesn't want to play the game this time. You don't mind. You don't really want to either, perfectly content to sit and drink in the quiet.</p><p>He does have an agenda, though. Makes it known as he pours out a second drink.</p><p>"So the kid."</p><p>Under your blindfold, you raise an eyebrow, but you don't think he can see. "You mean the kid that can move things with his mind? That kid?"</p><p>"To be honest, I'm surprised he hasn't done it in front of you before now."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"He's a pretty good judge of character," he says. Then he tells you the story--the short version, you're sure--of the kid's abilities, is patient with your questions, answers all of them easily, except the last one.</p><p>"Why tell me now? Just because I saw him? I wouldn't have pressed."</p><p>He takes his customary long pause before answering. You imagine him pondering your question, looking out into the sky above you, or maybe swirling around the remnants of the drink in his glass. When he does speak, he has a question of his own.</p><p>"Why are you here?"</p><p>You give him a sarcastic smile. "Because you burned my cantina down, remember? You were there."</p><p>"That's not what I mean." His tone is sharp, humorless, something entirely different than the conversation you thought you were having. "Why are you here?"</p><p>You're not completely sure what he means by the question, and it must show on the parts of your face he can see, the smile that disappears from your face. He clarifies.</p><p>"You seem perfectly content to live in a tiny little bunk on my garbage ship. I've seen what you can do, seen you fight, seen you fix stuff, and I don't get it. You could do anything you want. Find better pay anywhere in the galaxy. Earn a lot more money in a lot less time and rebuild your cantina, if that's what you wanted. Or get a ship of your own. Or join the guild. You'd give half the people I know a run for their money. So why stay here?"</p><p>Your mouth fails you. You still don't understand.</p><p>"You have an easy out, you know. No hard feelings. You say the word, I take you to the planet of your choice. I take care of the bounty on your head. I take you away from all of this, leave you with enough credits to start over, no questions asked. You know that, right?"</p><p>Slowly, shakily, heart in your throat, you nod your head.</p><p>"Then why stay here?"</p><p>Your stomach twists with the things unsaid, things you aren't sure you should say, things you can't be sure of yourself. </p><p>Part of you wants to walk away, slip into your bunk, sit vigil for another sleepless night, get the ship up and running, and take him up on his offer. Get the hell away from him. Maybe that's what this is, a polite notice that it's time for you to fuck off and be on your way. But then you remember the way he talked to you yesterday, the way he held you, if only for a moment, the way he promised you were safe with him. </p><p>You don't say anything for a while. He doesn't either, maybe too afraid to push the issue even though he was the one to raise it. Your mind runs in circles, tangled up like all of the wires you sorted through today. You drain your second drink and hold out your glass pointedly, wordlessly asking for a third. He complies. You hear him top off his own. He waits. He listens.</p><p>"I keep a tally in my head," you finally say. You're talking to him but you're talking to yourself too, saying these words out loud for the first time. Under your blindfold, you can almost believe you're alone, almost pretend to have some amount of privacy. You wonder if this is what it's like for him every day. "It's stupid. Probably really unhealthy in the long run, but I do it anyway. I keep track of all the things people do for me and all the things I do for them. I make a point to stay ahead. I never want to be caught owing anyone anything. Never want to be in anyone's debt." You sip from your glass, take another moment to collect your final thoughts, and he gives this time to you without pressing, without asking for more, displaying the patience you called into question the night before. "You and I were more or less even for a awhile, you know. So it was fine. Everything was fine. And then I moved into your stupid ship."</p><p>He give your words another moment to breathe, but when it's clear you're done speaking, he replies. "Tell me this isn't about the fucking stim canister." His voice isn't angry, isn't dismissive exactly, but it does betray a line of thought that says this whole premise is bafflingly familiar, incredibly stupid.</p><p>"It's not about the fucking stim canister," you nod. "It's about everything that came after. It's about you and your kid and your ship and the bounty on my head and all of this. And it doesn't make sense. And I know it doesn't. And I'm still trying to figure it all out. But every time I think I'm coming out ahead, you do something else for me and I owe you again. I can't fix a square inch of your stupid busted ship without you doing something nice for me. It's infuriating."</p><p>"You do know you almost died because of me, right? Like, multiple times?"</p><p>"Fuck, come on, I'm joking every time I blame you for burning down my bar. That wasn't you. That was the Empire and whoever they hired. Hell, you're the one that got me out of there before the building came down on top of me."</p><p>"You would have gotten out fine without me."</p><p>"I couldn't even see."</p><p>"How about when you watched the kid?" He presses. "Or hell, the gang members on the last planet? The bounty hunter that shot at you?"</p><p>"The Empire--"</p><p>"No. Not the Empire. The Empire didn't ask you to come on my ship. The Empire doesn't drag you around Kuat until someone takes notice and puts a price on your head. The Empire doesn't start a firefight they can't finish while you go in and save their ass. That's on me. All of that is on me. You think you're in my debt? It's entirely the other way around. So stop with that stupid game you're playing with yourself. You don't owe me a damn thing."</p><p>You shake your head, frustration flaring in your gut. "You still don't get it."</p><p>"What? What don't I get?"</p><p>"Are you really going to make me say it?"</p><p>"Apparently."</p><p>"That planet I was living on before you picked me up? The life I had? It was nothing. I had no one. No friends. No family. I had a bar and a town I pretended to like, a community I pretended to be a part of, protected on occasion. It was nothing compared to this." This. Whatever this was.</p><p>"So, what, do you get off on danger or something? On risking your own neck?"</p><p>"No! Maker, no! I just--"</p><p>"Then what? What are you talking about? What are you getting out of this deal besides 20% of my cut, which, by the way, I have yet to even fully pay out to you."</p><p>"People I--fuck, people I care about. There, I said it. Are you fucking happy now? Making me tell you how I feel and shit? Fuck. You asshole. Pour me out another fucking drink."</p><p>Something about the sentiment stuns him into silence, but he honors your request, fills up your glass again. You down it quick and hold it out again, and he repeats the motion, likely against his better judgement. You can feel your hands shaking, feel the burn of shame that vulnerability has left you with, feel the fire of the liquor in your belly steeling you for the inevitable let down where he will tell you how stupid you're being. He has his armor, you have yours. You're gearing up for your own battle, your own way.</p><p>But he keeps surprising you. </p><p>"That deal goes both ways, you know."</p><p>Your heart skips a beat while your head sorts out the meaning of his words.</p><p>"You asked me why I was telling you about the kid now. And. Yeah. I guess I just didn't want to be the one to say it first. But it goes both ways."</p><p>Your stomach flips. Your tired mind is racing. You wonder if he means it. You wonder what you should say. You land on, "You're an asshole."</p><p>He takes a long exhale before agreeing with you. "Yeah, I know. I am. I'm sorry for interrogating you like that. I was just--" he fumbles with your words, flustering like you've never seen from him before. He doesn't complete the sentence, opting instead to move the conversation in another direction, tone deadly serious. "Listen. If you stick around, you have to want to be here. I need you to want to be here. There is so much I can't do for you. I can't give you anything approaching normalcy on this ship. The kid is always going to have to come first. And the Creed. And we're always going to be running from something. I know that, and I know you know that, but I need you to just…just tell me if something's wrong, okay? I can't keep spending all my time wondering if you really want to be here, if this is enough for you, not when every second you spend with me and the kid puts you more at risk."</p><p>You consider the offer, but there's really no question. You raise your glass in his general direction. "You're an asshole," you say again without any real venom, "but yeah, I'll drink to that." A glass clinks against your own.</p><p>"And stop with that stupid tally of yours. I mean it. You and I are even now, for the rest of the forever. Got it?"</p><p>"Not quite."</p><p>"Stars, what now?"</p><p>"Pretty sure that bottle is almost done. Next one's on you."</p><p>Another pause before he sets his glass down, presumably drained. "Yeah, okay. I can do that."</p><p> </p><p>You're drunk of your ass again when you try to go to the ladder. He helps you again, and it's infuriating. He tells you goodnight and his hands linger when you part, but nothing else happens. You go to bed with a storm of thoughts in your head, lightning raining down like confusion, but against all odds, when you drift off, you sleep soundly 'til morning.</p><p> </p><p>He's back under the floor panels, asking for your expertise. You're on the floor proper, lying on your belly, head next to his, peering over his shoulder. There's something different in the air, something unacknowledged, something that might even frighten you a bit, but your dynamic with the Mandalorian remains unchanged, landing zings at each other like you always have. It's familiar. Comforting. A steady rhythm you were afraid would falter, but now have unabashed faith in.</p><p>You've solved the main power grid problems, or at least, you think you have, so the lighting is no issue as you point out components, tell him how to connect system A to system B. He cuts a wire, the one you told him too, but you've messed up somehow. The hum of the ship stops. The lights go out. The darkness envelopes you.</p><p>"You've got to be kidding me." You hang your head for a moment in frustration. "That's not what should have happened."</p><p>"Tell me I didn't just irreparably break the ship."</p><p>You sigh, moving your mind forward into trouble shooting mode, away from frustration. "It's probably just a misplaced wire. Definitely fixable. Let me get a flashlight."</p><p>"Hang on, wait."</p><p>"I can't see anything."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>There's a noise, something that sounds a lot like the movements he made in the cockpit last night, taking off his helmet.</p><p>And then he says "C'mere," in a warm, unfiltered voice. And then theres a hand on your cheek, fingers tangling in the hair behind your ear. And then his lips meet yours. And then you're kissing him. And you never, ever want to stop.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, uh, yeah. Rating might go up?</p><p>Also updates are probably going to be slower from here on out because I have to go do ~Christmas things~ but hope everyone is staying safe and healthy and making good choices! Wash your hands kids! </p><p>And who's ready for that finale tomorrow?!?!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. separate and syncopated</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Did you just say you fought a blash'narl and managed to walk away with your life?"</p><p>"More like ran away with it, actually, but yeah."</p><p>"You've got to be bluffing on that one. No way."</p><p>"Got a couple scars that would disagree with you."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm gonna level with you guys, nothing really happens in this chapter and idrk how I feel about it. Rewrote some of these scenes like a million times and I'm tired of this sitting in my drafts. Also, it's been a pretty shitty week over here, so if this chapter is actually terrible, let's collectively blame it on that. BUT there's plenty of banter and a lil bit of backstory and these two are still being very polite and considerate assholes to each other and it's still a lot of fun so if that's you're thing then buckle up. Setting up some stuff for the next chapter.</p><p>Content Warning for descriptions of past abuse/trauma, but it's very slight and non-detailed.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He doesn't let you off the ship once you get to Navarro.</p><p>You complain. Of course you do. You were looking forward to hitting the markets again, if only because recent experience had taught you that you needed more all-weather gear. And gloves. And another blanket. And better boots. And you were still waffling on whether or not you should get a fancy-ass rifle of your own. And you were so tired of looking at this ship. It would be nice to stroll down main street without searching for spare parts or wondering when the next fight will break out.</p><p>"So let me get this straight. You think it's a good idea to walk into a town crawling with bounty hunters right now. Even though you know the amount of credits the Empire is paying to get their hands on you. And not only are you willing to make their job as easy as possible, but you're willing to risk capture or worse over a day of window shopping?"</p><p>"Well…when you put it like that…"</p><p>"Stay on the ship." He orders in that no-nonsense voice he has, and you try not to feel like a child sent to bed without dinner. "Better yet, stay in the cockpit. And away from the windows."</p><p>"Might as well knock me into the crawl space and seal up the panels."</p><p>"Consider this a more comfortable alternative." You watch him perform the usual routine, holstering weapons, checking ammo belts. But then he turns to the child and says, "Ready to get some air, kid?" as he lifts him up and lays him down in the floating crib. And you just have to protest again.</p><p>"He gets to leave the ship and I don't?"</p><p>"Did you miss the conversation where we just established how expensive you are?"</p><p>"What about him? He's expensive too!"</p><p>"He is," Mando agrees. "But the guild isn't paying anymore."</p><p>"What about those Hunters that came for me in my bar?"</p><p>"They didn't get the message to lay off in time. Besides, Karga likes the kid. Might help me get some info on what's going on with you."</p><p>"So you want me to stay on the ship. Alone. And I'm not even allowed to go outside to tune up the engine that's still giving us problems?"</p><p>"There you go. Now you're getting it. I knew you were smart."</p><p>You shoot him a death glare.</p><p>He presses some buttons on his vambrace. The floating cradle jumps to attention, hovering ever so slightly closer to him. "A couple hired hands will be in the hull to get the carbonite out, but they won't go up the ladder. I'll tell the pit crew to stay away. No one should give you a problem if you--"</p><p>"Stay in the cockpit. Yeah. I got it."</p><p>"Then what are you still doing down here?" he says with a pointed helmet tilt.</p><p>"Oh my Maker," you say under your breath. You reach down to pick up one of the smaller tool boxes laying around. "I got it, okay?"</p><p>"What are you doing with that?"</p><p>"You're telling me to lock myself in the cockpit and won't even leave the kid with me. I'm gonna get <em>bored</em>. Figured I could clean out the control panel. This is the part where you say thank you."</p><p>He doesn't though. He just stays "Stay out of sight," and leaves through the side door. </p><p> </p><p>Cleaning out the control panel is a grueling, mind numbing, unpleasant job that involves taking off the metal overlay and removing the grime and grease from each button and switch one by one before tightening up all the knuts and bolts and oiling it all down to make sure nothing sticks. But at least you have something to do, at least you're in the cockpit, and while you might not be staying away from the windows, it wouldn't take long to duck out of sight. You'll be able to see anything that comes into view before it sees you.</p><p>Cleaning out the control panel also offers no mental stimulation whatsoever, so you entertain yourself by thinking through the events of the past few days, cataloguing each repair, slapping together a list of maintenance you want to get to in order of priority (starting with the life support functions--you're almost afraid of what you'll find), budgeting out what parts you need, and, oh yeah, reminding yourself that you locked lips with your client-boss-roommate-friend turned mechanical repair partner and personal guardian just the other day.</p><p>The memory still gives you butterflies, still shorts out your brain with the mental gymnastics you had done in that moment, realizing this was something he wanted, realizing this was something you wanted, realizing that it was actually, maybe, attainable. You hadn't even let yourself imagine it, hadn't allowed yourself to acknowledge the desire, too afraid, you suppose, of what rejection might feel like when you had no other place to go, too certain that you would never measure up to the idea the Mandalorian must have had of the kind of person he would want to be with.</p><p>And then he kissed you, soft, gentle, above all, <em>careful</em>, asking you to give yourself permission to want more. You've thought about it a lot in the time since. It wasn't just something physical, a primal and unattached need for contact, release. If that were true, he would have tested the waters more, would have let it progress, skimmed his hands over your body, taken you right there on the floor if you had granted your consent. But it was nothing so heated.</p><p>It was his lips, and yours, and his hands in your hair, a simple request, "C'mere," as if this meeting between you was inevitable while every moment after was drenched in uncertainty. It was tentative. It was delicate. And he kissed you with the kind of fragility that the situation warranted, exhaled with a fear that twisted into hope when he parted to give you space, to give you a chance to back away, to give you every opportunity to voice a concern, or to offer you an invitation, maybe, to reciprocate. </p><p>It's why you're certain you felt the ghost of a smile on his lips when you reached out for him blindly, a gentle grasp around the back of his neck, giving him the barest nudge forward to meet you in another kiss, one given for one received, an offering that left you even. </p><p>It's the reason, it must be, that he drew in another shuttering breath when you parted a second time, your hand delving deeper into the hair at the base of his neck while his thumb caressed the ridge of your cheekbone, one hand holding your face in the ghost of a grip that spoke of safety, of respect, of, above all, something like reverence.</p><p>You stayed like that for a long while, frozen in the depths of the ship, too long, not long enough, saying nothing, holding the moment in silence. You weren't ready when his hand left your face and circled around your wrist instead, easing it away from him, leaving you with a gentle squeeze. </p><p>"Wanna grab that flashlight now?," he said quietly, breaking the moment but trying not to let it shatter, not completely, not yet.</p><p>"No," you whispered honestly, because your brain still hadn't started functioning again, because you trusted him enough to give him the truth, because you wanted to keep building whatever it was you had just laid the foundation for.</p><p>He gave a sharp exhale, like a laugh, and there was a smile on your face too. "You don't have to," he said, just a touch louder that time, "but if you leave me to fix it myself there's a chance I'll make it even worse."</p><p>"Hey, come on, you're not clueless. Thought you said you and a friend put this whole thing back together yourselves."</p><p>"And look where that got us." And then you're laughing again, both of you, quiet but glad, giddy with endorphins and understanding, relieved to have charted new territory and come back home finding that nothing had changed.</p><p>Neither of you had really acknowledged it in the day and a half since, too consumed by the ship, too busy with the kid, too tired from the day, too determined to still be, on some level, assholes to each other. But it hadn't felt like you were hiding from it. It was more like you had reached some sort of understanding that this would take time, that it should take time, that it was too important to rush and ruin. </p><p>And, also, there was still a bounty on your head and an Empire to contend with, and if you didn't concentrate your efforts at holding the ship together at all times, you wouldn't stay alive long enough to deal with either of those pressing issues.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're almost done cleaning the grime out of the control panel together again when you hear the ramp lower and a familiar pair of footsteps in the hull, along with a quiet mummering that sounds like, "No, hey, don't eat that. I just gave you lunch. How are you hungry again?"</p><p>You snort to yourself while you trace his path through the hull in your mind's eye. Weapons cache, to disarm, gally, to feed himself or the kid again or both, then up the ladder, arriving at the door to the cockpit just as you're reaching for another clean rag to get at a nasty bit of grime that won't come off.</p><p>"When was the last time you cleaned this thing?" You say in greeting, without turning around from your task. "This control panel is disgusting. Fucking hell. I can't believe I let you shame me about my blaster maintenance when this was lurking in your ship the whole time."</p><p>"Like you said, most techs would charge extra," he says nonchalantly as he approaches. "And a sticky trigger can cost you your life. Everything quiet around here since I left?"</p><p>"A sticky button can cost you your life too," you point out. "Especially if that button is, say, the landing gear? Laser cannons? Hell, the fucking distress signal?"</p><p>"Okay, point taken."</p><p>"And techs only charge extra for this because no one ever does it when they should and it ends up being a grimy greasy mess. There's enough crumbs in here to make an entire new ration bar."</p><p>"Huh," is all he says about that, unwilling to engage too much with you when you're nagging him like this. "When can we take off?"</p><p>"Give me another 15 minutes or so. I'm almost done. Just gotta get all the blood out of the ignition switches. I assume that's blood. Please tell me that's blood. I don't want to know what that is if it's not blood."</p><p>"It's probably blood," he assures you. "Probably mine. Probably from the…damn, that must have been from my last fight with a blash'narl. Okay, yeah, it has been awhile. Could have sworn I cleaned up after that one. Sorry."</p><p>"You got the surface stuff, but anything and everything will slip through the cracks. Did you just say you fought a blash'narl and managed to walk away with your life?"</p><p>"More like ran away with it, actually, but yeah."</p><p>"You've got to be bluffing on that one. No way."</p><p>"Got a couple scars that would disagree with you."</p><p>"I'm sure you do," you say absentmindedly as you wipe down the last of the buttons, adding more disinfectant than you would otherwise after a second thought. </p><p>The rustling sound of Velcro finally encourages you to take your gaze away from your work. You look behind you just in time to see the Mandalorian take his left glove off and hold his hand out for inspection. After another moment, he decisively points out one of the meaner-looking lines, jagged and angry, in between his thumb and forefinger. It runs down his palm and disappears under his sleeve. "It's this one, I think. Goes up all the way to my elbow. Almost lost my thumb on that one." He pauses for a brief second, then tilts his head in an attempt at humor. "But that's why we have ten fingers, right?"</p><p>You wince slightly, both at the sight of the scar and the callback to your earlier joke, which now seemed insensitive. "And you say I'm the walking disaster."</p><p>He shrugs, then starts putting his glove back on. "Did some stupid shit back in the day, same as everybody else. Half-thought you would have had a similar story, with that scar on your shoulder and all."</p><p>Scar on your shoulder. Scar on your shoulder. Which one is he talking…oh, that one. Back of the shoulder, jagged and angry, hooking from the side of your neck down and around to your upper arm. Easily seen when you wear a tank top on some of your trips to warmer planets. He noticed. Of course he did.</p><p>You almost want to feel self-conscious, but you know that wasn't his intention, so you laugh a little instead, maybe nervously, maybe ironically. "That definitely wasn't a blash'narl." You turn back to the control board, finishing the last of your work, maybe trying to end the conversation there. You reach down for the metal panel, big and unwieldly, but not necessarily heavy, and start the delicate process of lining it up to fit over all of the buttons and levers. Something tugs at the other end. When you look to the side, you see another pair of hands helping you line it up. With his help, it slides in easily.</p><p>"Something else with sharp teeth, then?"</p><p>"Yeah, you could say that."</p><p>"So not a droid?"</p><p>"No, not a droid," you say cryptically. You wordlessly point to the power drill sitting on the floor in the corner, close to his feet. He picks it up and hands it to you. "He kind of had the personality of one, though."</p><p>"An Imp?"</p><p>You grab a screw and start lining it up where it needs to go, then steal a suspicious glance at him. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to figure out what I did before I wound up at my cantina."</p><p>You can hear a wry smile in his voice when he answers. "So what if I am?"</p><p>You give him a crooked grin in return. "You're gonna have to try a little harder than that."</p><p>"Oh come on. Don't make me drink you under the table again."</p><p>You cock an eyebrow. "That a challenge, Tin Can?"</p><p>"So you're not going to tell me?"</p><p>You shrug, finding yourself backed into a corner without an easy way out, something he was all too good at doing to you with words alone. It wasn't fair, really. For someone who didn't seem to have much practice at conversational skill, he was surprisingly adept at extracting the information he wanted. A useful skill for any bounty hunter, an annoying skill to have in a…whatever he was to you at the moment.</p><p>Whatever. It wasn't a big deal if you didn't make it one. "Got it from a knife wound. Blade was seven inches long, I think. Serrated, which is why it looks like that. Had some bacta on hand, but there were others who needed it more, so it scarred over."</p><p>He doesn't say anything for a long while, and you fill the silence with your drill, finishing up the job you had started hours ago. His visor is trained on you the whole time, and it's a little unnerving, but nothing that's never happened before.</p><p>"Alright, she's ready for you," you say after the last screw goes in. "Wings up in ten?"</p><p>He ignores the question. He does that a lot. "You know, if I'm prying too much, you can always tell me to fuck off."</p><p>The statement takes you off guard, and you sense something in the air shift slightly. It sounds like you're about to have another honest conversation. You’d been having a lot of those lately, and they always made you nervous. You don't answer the question directly, instead asking "What makes you say that?" as you take apart the drill in preparation to put it back in its case.</p><p>"Other than the fact that I know you know that I don't care how long the knife that did that to you was?" He picks up the case, also by his feet, and hands it to you without you having to ask, in sync with your motions despite your disjointed nerves. "Your shoulder tensed. You do that when you don't want to talk about something."</p><p>You knew he was observant, you just hadn't thought he'd be putting those skills to work on you. Unfamiliar territory. You don't like it. You try to navigate to safer shores. "Maybe I just do that when I'm worried I'm going to find something else wrong with your ship."</p><p>"You also tend to try to switch topics."</p><p>Well. If that wasn't damning.</p><p>You're sure your worries are evident on your face as you put the drill back in its case and close it up, trying all the while to figure a way out of this conversation. But then, he just gave you one, didn't he? Just gave you permission to tell him to fuck off.</p><p>That feels wrong, though. You only ever exchange words like that when you're joking, and this wouldn't be a joke. This would be too real, too close to hitting real feelings even if there were a billion walls in between you two that offered some sort of protection. </p><p>You try to figure out what to say, but when you turn back to look at him, no words come out. You curse yourself inwardly.</p><p>"It's fine," he says casually, maybe too casual, jarring the distress you're feeling. "You can tell me some other time."</p><p>You nod in response, an automatic reaction. "I'm, uh…I'm gonna go put this back in the tool closet."</p><p>"Might as well call it the liquor cabinet, now," he says, and just like that, topic changed, tension diffused.</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"You'll see."</p><p>You're down the ladder by the time he calls a "Wings up in ten," to you, still stumbling through the meaning of his earlier words when you're patting the kid on the head and asking him how his day out was. Some other time. He said you could tell him some other time. And some other time implied some sort of future, some sort of choice, and while he has always been clear that you are welcome on his ship as long as you want, you still grasp at the certainty of being wanted, the offering of the freedom to say "not right now." There's a sudden rush of gratitude in your heart. You're glad he's not around to see the confusion it paints on your expression. </p><p>And then you're at the tool closet, putting away the drill, and what do you find but another bottle of liquor. And then you're laughing to yourself, a small smile finding its way onto your face, and all your earlier alarm is forgotten.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You haven't been in hyperspace for more than two seconds before he turns around and says, "Catch."</p><p>You have a baby on your lap, and so getting ready to catch something is easier said than done, but he gives it a gentle toss, first one item and then the other. The kid reaches out his arms too, and so maybe his weird baby powers are why the objects don't clatter to the floor. </p><p>In one hand, you hold your 20% cut. In the other hand, you hold a puck. The credits go in your pocket, but you raise the puck at him in question. "Just one this time?"</p><p>"High value target. Karga wouldn't let me take another."</p><p>You switch it on, and suddenly your face is staring back at you. "Woah. Wait, how the hell did my bounty go up already?"</p><p>"The last guy they sent for you didn't come back. That's normally how it works. The good news is you're worth more alive than dead."</p><p>You shut the puck off and look back at that Mandalorian, shuddering at you process his words. "And this is supposed to convince me that you aren't going to turn me in. Right?" You're not suspicious, not really, but best to be sure.</p><p>"It'll give us some time. Supposedly it's one puck for one bounty. Since we have that, no one else should come looking for you."</p><p>"Supposedly?"</p><p>"Yeah, supposedly. Empire must have sent out a few dozen fobs for him,"--he points to the Pumpkin in your lap, ears twitching from the thrill of realizing he's included in the conversation-- "So I don't really trust it, but we should have a head start at the very least."</p><p>"Okay. Head start on what?"</p><p>"Figuring out who exactly put the bounty on your head and…removing them from the pay chain."</p><p>"Any leads?"</p><p>"No. Guild code says no questions asked, and Karga didn't appreciate it when I tried to break with tradition. But there are other ways."</p><p>"Is this how you stopped the Guild from targeting this guy?" You give the Green Bean a little tickle in the side, and he laughs so suddenly he spits a little bit. It lands on your knee. Gross.</p><p>"No. I convinced Karga to pull some favors on his end. That won't work for you." He hands you a rag you had left behind from cleaning the control panel, thankfully one of the cleaner ones.</p><p>"Thanks," you say as you take it and wipe off your knee. "Why won't that work for me?"</p><p>"For one thing, the Child saved his life, which definitely helped in the negotiations. For another, you aren't a tiny, defenseless, adorable child with big ears and eyes that could convince a handful of strangers to work together to save your life."</p><p>"Are you implying that I'm not as adorable as this little booger? I mean, hey, I thought the resemblance was uncanny." To emphasize your ridiculous and utterly false point, you bring the kid's face close to your own. The movement causes the kiddo to laugh again, and this time when he drools, it lands on your shirt. Great. "You just won't work with me today, will you?"</p><p>The Mandalorian laughs softly. "Maybe, but anyone who sees you use that blaster on your hip will know you're anything but defenseless."</p><p>You make a big show of thinking pensively, then turn your face to the kid, face still next to yours, and say "I think he's right, kiddo." You blow a raspberry on his cheek and he squeals in delight, then tries to grab your nose. You settle him back on your lap before he can, grabbing the rag again to clean up your shirt after you do. "So what do we do for cash in the meantime? I've got a couple contacts I could reach out to who might have some work."</p><p>"…work…fixing ships?"</p><p>"…No…more of the pew pew, one-two-punch kind of jobs. But honestly their ships are always falling apart too, so that could also work?"</p><p>"If I ask how you have those kinds of contacts, are you going to tell me?"</p><p>You shrug. "Would you believe me if I said it was a long story?"</p><p>He sighs, but it comes out as more bewildered than anything else. "Sometimes I wonder if you're more of a mystery than the kid is."</p><p>"No, I'm just not as cute, so you get annoyed faster." The kid sticks his tongue out, and he's probably doing it to the streaks of light flying past, but in your mind you pretend it's towards Mando. It's the kind of backup you love to have in a conversation. </p><p>"One more thing." He tosses a third object at you, and you catch it easily this time. A comlink. "For emergencies," he says, as if that wasn't already implicit in the gesture. "Keep it on you at all times," he says, as if the contingency protocols he was laying down were lost on you.</p><p>"Copy that," you say. It goes into one of the pockets in your cargo pants, heavy against your leg, reminding you of all the things an emergency could possibly mean, all the ways your next trip might not end well. If he was giving this to you now, after all this time spent on his ship, it could only mean that he was nervous, an ominous sign that bit at your curiosity. "Where are we headed anyway?"</p><p>He turns back to the control panel, still gleaming from your earlier efforts. There's a few buttons and knobs that he presses, all preset features that don't really matter to the function of the ship, and you realize he's fidgeting, nervous in a different way now. "You're not going to like it." </p><p>You frown, look at the kid in your lap, then look back to the Mandalorian, who's pointedly not looking at you. "Don't tell me. Not Kuat again."</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Oh. Well anything's better than Kuat, so I'm sure it's not that bad. Unless it's--"</p><p>"Don't finish that sentence."</p><p>"Fuck. You're not taking me to Jutrand."</p><p>"I…am taking you to Jutrand."</p><p>No fucking way. "There's like a trillion people on that planet. Just like Kuat."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"The whole thing is a city. Why the hell are we going there?"</p><p>"It'll be easier to--"</p><p>"Not to mention last I heard, there were still Imperial holdouts."</p><p>"Which is useful if we want to find out--"</p><p>"And it's on two major trade routes, isn't it? Everyone's coming in and out--"</p><p>"Exactly, which means no one will stay too long to see--"</p><p>"And the pollution. You sure you want the kid breathing that air?"</p><p>"It's a lot better than it used to be. Will you calm down? Let me explain."</p><p>He tells you his reasoning, namely that it'll be easier to disappear in a planet-sized city that's overburdened with people than on a sparsely populated settlement like most of the outer-rim planets. It's temperate, so you won't freeze or overheat. There's plenty of good booze--a fact he only adds to appease you, you're sure--and if everyone is coming and going, no one's going to stick around too long to see what you're up to. The trade routes might also prove useful if the three of you need a quick escape. Most of all, he tells you he needs to gain access to Imperial info--it might be the best way to find the name of whoever put the bounty on you and give them a quick end before some other bounty hunter snatches you up.</p><p>At the end of his explanation, you're defeated by his reasoning. You want to argue, but there aren't really any good arguments, so you ask, "Are you going to make me stay in the ship the whole time?"</p><p>To which he only promises, "We'll see."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It takes a few days to get there. Most of the time, you have your ear keyed into the sounds of the ship, arms in one panel or the other, fixing what you can while you're in hyperspace, performing overdue maintenance. You cross your fingers for the left engine. It seems to hold.</p><p>The Mandalorian is gracious about the amount of space you take up in the hull, panels and tools and wires littered everywhere, all the time. When he has to move around you, he steps lightly. When the space is tight, he places a gentle hand on your back as he squeezes by, a subtle touch that says he wants you to know that he's there.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"How much maintenance are you going to need to do once we land?"</p><p>"Not sure. I have a lot of questions about that engine. Though I would have a better idea if you'd let me sit in the pilot's seat for once."</p><p>"Nice try. I'm still not going to let you fly her."</p><p>"Starting to think you don't want me to fly because you don't want me to find out what else is wrong."</p><p>He shakes his head, nervous, says mostly to himself "Nope. Not letting you do it."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>On one night, you play the drinking game again. You're nervous, but you don't need to be. He asks you about your childhood farm and your power tool preferences and your favorite holiday memory. </p><p>He doesn't ask about the gaps in your past, the shadowed edges tangential to the things he already knows about you, the details that would help him color in the full picture. He doesn't ask you where you've been and what you've done. He doesn't ask about the scar on your shoulder.</p><p>He drinks you under the table, and neither of you are surprised. When you're drunk enough to challenge him to an arm wrestle, he brings your hand flush to the surface of the crate easily. You don't let go when the match ends, though. He doesn't either. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"If he was an ice cream flavor, he'd be pistachio. No, wait. Mint chocolate chip."</p><p>The kid looks up at you with adoring eyes. The Mandalorian tilts his head incredulously.</p><p>"I'm starting to get nervous that you're going to eat him one of these days."</p><p>You mimic his head tilt, give him a knowing grin. "You're just mad because today's one of those days where he likes me more than you."</p><p>You tickle the kid's foot. His laughter rings through the ship. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He's at his workbench when your dreams startle you from your sleep. You would call it the middle of the night, but you have no idea anymore, untethered from any sense of planetary time for too long. The two of you have always had different sleeping patters anyway, making it easy to miss each other even on a normal day, and the kid doesn't really have a reliable body clock either. Long trips in hyperspace make it difficult to find a decent routine, but he's kept the main lights dimmed, preferring to work under the overhead light at the desk, and that must mean something approximating "working too late in the night."</p><p>He gives you a nod when you jump down from your bunk, but otherwise keeps his visor trained on his hands, carefully cleaning and oiling one of his blasters. The weapons cabinet is open, half of the machines inside gleaming, half still waiting their turn to be cleaned. It's good to know he does some maintenance, at least. His hands are methodical, his movements almost hypnotic in the shadowed lights of the hull. You have to tear away your gaze before it lingers too long, opting to quietly make your way to the gally for a glass of water. When you return, he's the one to break the silence. "Not a night for drinking then?"</p><p>"No," you say quietly, shaking your head, looking down at the remaining liquid in your glass. You think about going up to the cockpit for some quiet hyperspace gazing, but something pulls you to cross the threshold between you instead. You sit on a nearby crate, watching him work. "That a DL-44? Haven't seen one in a while." </p><p>He matches the quiet tone of your voice, mindful of the sleeping child most likely in the hammock of his bunk. "That's probably a good thing. Anyone at the other end of one of these doesn't normally get a chance to tell the story later."</p><p>"Haven't seen you use it before."</p><p>"It's bulky. Best at short-range. Not really good for travel or stealth."</p><p>"Can't imagine that armor of yours is great for stealth either."</p><p>He shrugs. "This is the Way." He snaps some of the smaller metal components together, making his way through the mechanics of the gun. "Rough sleep?"</p><p>Your turn to shrug. "It is what it is. Want any help?" You're itching for a distraction, some sort of monotonous task to turn your brain off for a bit.</p><p>He freezes for a moment, though, almost imperceptivity, but you're getting better at reading his body language. Maybe this was a line you weren't supposed to cross. Was that a joke when he said weapons were his religion, or was he being serious?</p><p>"Sorry, I didn't mean to-"</p><p>"No. It's okay. You can--you can work on the DC-19 if you want."</p><p>"…You sure?"</p><p>"You know proper gun safety protocols, right?"</p><p>"Of course."</p><p>"Then yeah, go ahead."</p><p>You're grateful, still a little wary that you've asked for something you shouldn't have, but the feeling of the heavy metal in your hand is comforting, the clicks of the components as you take them apart soothing in a way that it shouldn't be. You pass the polishing cloth back and forth as needed, sharing the task in a welcome silence. It's what you needed. The clicks, clacks, snaps, and clatters lull you into an almost meditative state. Your mind wanders, heading in a better direction than before, distracting yourself with the gun in your hand, the ship diagnostics your ran earlier, the kid in your care, the man in beskar right beside you.</p><p>It's nice, sharing the same task in the same silence in the dead of what passes for night these days. You wouldn't think being close to him is something lacking in your life, given the small ship you both inhabited, but so often you're working on different things entirely, or maybe the same thing, but on different ends of the ship, separated by the work that brought you together in the first place.</p><p>You realize, not for the first time, how comfortable you feel in his presence, a feeling completely antithetical to his entire being, hard edges and pointed weapons and the deadly demeanor he carries with him everywhere else, but not with you, never with you, not even in your very first meeting, when you sat him down at your bar and co-conspired to get him off the planet and out of your sight. But he came back. He kept coming back.</p><p>"So the shoulder scar," you say into the silence without even thinking. It startles you, almost, but the man next to you is unfazed, barely even gives an indication that he's listening, though you're certain he is.</p><p>"Seven inch serrated blade. I know because I gave the knife to him. The guy that scratched me up. Life day gift. He was, uh, we were together at the time." And then the words are out in the open, and you can't take them back if you tried. You prepare yourselves for the assumptions, the ones everyone else makes, the ones that say you were a battered woman that stayed with a broken man for far too long, the ones that didn't have the full story of intrigue and betrayal and good old fashioned manipulation.</p><p>His hands freeze for a moment, and you wait for the awkwardness to descend, for his inability to grasp at what to say and your inability to respond, because how does a conversation really flow after a revelation like that? And then he laughs--laughs, of all things--and you're confused until he follows it up with "Knife-crazed ex, huh? Been there." And now you have some questions of your own.</p><p>"Fuck. You too?"</p><p>"Yeah. Part of an old merc grew I used to run with. Stupid shit I did back in the day."</p><p>"Was this before or after the blash'narl?"</p><p>"Before. <em>Way</em> before."</p><p>"Glad to see your tastes evolved, then. The blash'narl definitely sounds like a step up."</p><p>He laughs quick at that, like the joke punched him in the gut. "Fuck. It really was."</p><p>You crack a grin too, glad he appreciates the humor. "Mine was an Imperial spy. The bar doesn't really go much lower than that," you say, and you don't know how or why, but it's easy, so damn easy to talk to him.</p><p>"Damn. Yeah, you win. This was back during the Rebellion?"</p><p>You nod. "Thought something was off when his aim was worse than the stormtroopers we were shooting at, but I didn't put two and two together until he pulled the knife on me. Thought he was just, I don't know, <em>bad</em> at the whole war thing. Like, really, <em>really</em> bad."</p><p>"Maker," he says, shaking his head, laughing lightly. "Hard to see you putting up with that kind of incompetence now."</p><p>"Stupid shit we got into when we were young, right? Pretty sure he tried to kill me once. I mean, before the whole knife thing. He was flying in an X-Wing behind me and kept shooting a little too close. Blamed it on a malfunction when our squad leader asked him what the hell he was doing. It was obvious, looking back on it."</p><p>"What happened after that?"</p><p>"They wouldn't let him back in a ship anymore. Relegated to pit crew. He was mad about it. Threw a fit now and again, and if you can believe it, I was the one who had to calm him down. For nearly blowing me up. It still makes me mad."</p><p>"That when he pulled the knife on you?"</p><p>"No. That was later. I'm still trying to piece together what happened, but I think his handlers convinced him I had intel that I didn't. Something about a space station base, which I later realized was--"</p><p>"The Death Star."</p><p>"Yup.</p><p>"No way. No way you were involved in that."</p><p>You shake your head. "Nothing of the sort. I'm not that badass, which I know must come as a surprise. Was a couple dozen systems away when that went down, so I really don't know why he thought I had anything to do with it. I think some wires got crossed. What I'd really just received was updated plans of the latest TIE fighter model--which, ironically, he would have known if he hadn't been such a shitty pilot. Found him going through my stuff one day, which happened a lot. We fought about it, which happened a lot too. And then it, I don't know, just kept escalating. And somewhere in there I figured out what he was up to. Hell of a breakup."</p><p>"I can imagine."</p><p>"Learned a good lesson though. Never give anyone you care about anything they can hurt you with."</p><p>He nods slightly, an action he seems to do for his own benefit more than yours, visor looking back down to the movements of his hands. He seems to be getting ready to say something serious, but when he does speak, all he says is, "In that case, can I have that blaster you borrowed from me back?"</p><p>Your mouth twitches into a quick grin. "Only if you fight me for it."</p><p>He thinks better of it. "Maybe another time. No need to wake up the kid right now." </p><p>"Smart." The DC-19 in your hands is as clean as it's ever going to get. You put it back in its place in the cabinet, pick out another gun to clean. If you're a little bit closer to the Mandalorian when you sit back down, neither of you acknowledge it.</p><p>"What happened to him after that? New Republic get their hands on him?"</p><p>"Trying to track him down and compare notes or something?"</p><p>He shrugs. "A little target practice never hurt anyone."</p><p>You laugh at the joke, but you also have a hunch that if you asked him to, he wouldn't hesitate. Thankfully it's not needed. "He slipped away in the commotion. There was a lot going on at the moment. Life support systems on the battleship we were stationed on were on the fritz--probably sabotaged by him or a partner or something so he could make a getaway. He stole the Y-Bomber I was flying at the time on the way out. Total fuckboy move. Don't worry though. Once my commission ended, I tracked him down. Got one of his handlers too. Left them both on Esseles, icing over, 6 feet underground."</p><p>"Huh. You weren't kidding when you said you had a lot of good war stories."</p><p>"I've seen a thing or two I guess. Really mad I wasn't around to blow up the Death Star. Or the second one either. Half the time that's the only thing anyone wants to hear about, but there were plenty of other fights going on across the galaxy. Some might say there still are." Your gaze drifts over to the bunk where your favorite green button rests in his hammock, implication heavy in the air, remnants of the Empire still targeting the three of you.</p><p>You exchange a few more words after that, a couple jokes here and there, but when the quiet descends again, it makes sense, feels just as comfortable as before. You think maybe you've unwound enough to head back to your bunk, get a few more hours of sleep.</p><p>And then he gives you his name. And it's a gift you weren't ready for, an answer to a question you never dared ask, spoken softly in the vacuum of hyperspace, one secret given for one received, an offering that leaves you even. It rolls off your tongue like a gunshot, a staccato syllable, a one-note hum that cuts through the clang and jangle of the universe  and finds you here, on his ship, heart hammering with an urgent need for more. </p><p>So you tell him you'd kiss him if his helmet wasn't in the way.</p><p>And he asks you why it took you so long to say so.</p><p>The lights cut out. You find each other in the dark. You don't let go for hours.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you all for the comments and kudos! I truly do appreciate it and am so happy that other people are getting some enjoyment out of this too! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. the sharpest edges of you, (the trust we hold in-between)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An interlude.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warning: traditionally this would probably be called sex with a side of feelings, but really it's more of feelings with a side of sex. It's, uh...classy? tasteful??</p><p>Still. 18+ only, please. Everyone else, hang tight for the next chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's dark on the ship--it has to be--dark enough to get in your way if you let it, but you're both cut from the same stubborn cloth, and the armor isn't that much trouble to get off of him in the long run, not when the warmth that lies underneath is so inviting. It's the first thing your senses linger on, the warmth that you always knew was there, the arms that wrap around you, the press of his chest against yours, and once again you have found a rare kind of safety in him that you hadn't known you were looking for. It's something like shelter.</p><p>Your layers are much easier to take off, and when you’re stripped of them, when the chill of the ship hits you, when the floor hits your back, his lips are there to follow. He kisses you like he can't believe you're with him on this ship, the strength of him covering you like a blanket, a shield, a protector, bare hands running down bare bodies, exploring each other in the ways that you can. He's greedy for you, hands never resting anywhere for long, the scruff of his chin trailing down the side of your face and then lower, teeth grazing your neck as he does. It's a duel, almost. You have to fight to meet your lips with his again, to make him receive as much as he gives, to permit you to hold the face you will never see in your hands, keep him steady enough to share one, two, three breaths. You are inhale, and he is exhale, if only for the briefest moment, but he allows you this, allows you the stillness that comes when he rests his forehead on yours, the closest you will ever get to looking him in the eye. </p><p>"You--you want this, right? Tell me you--Fuck, you say the word and I'll stop. No questions. I swear."</p><p>His hands are on your hips, daring to go lower even as he says the words, as he gives you an out should you need one, as if he knows you've been scanning the galaxy for easy exits your whole life. You believe him. You trust him. You want all of this and more.</p><p>Your hands leave his face and meet the hands on your body, pushing them lower, letting them grip your thighs, feel the slickness that has gathered there. You say, you whisper, into the blackness above you, "Don't stop. Please don't stop."</p><p>And he doesn't. His lips meet yours once more, something gentle, an echo of an earlier touch, and then he's tracing his earlier path, kissing sweet praises into your neck, betraying a need that makes so much sense to you. </p><p>"I've wanted you. Wanted this."</p><p>Fingers come up to count your ribs. </p><p>"Wanted to feel you."</p><p>Teeth and tongue wander across your chest.</p><p>"You made me leave you on that planet. In that cantina. Made me leave you twice. Almost a third time. Fuck."</p><p>Hands caress your stomach, grip your sides.</p><p>"How long have you been holding your own against the whole fucking galaxy, huh?"</p><p>Lips trail lower, a gentle bite to the bone of your hip.</p><p>"How long has it been since you let anyone else see how fucking brilliant you are?"</p><p>You think you could ask him the very same questions. You think his answers would mirror yours, sound something like "far too long," something like living only within the space of your sharp edges, your knuckles and elbows and the barrel of your blasters, forgetting everything that exists in-between, divesting yourselves from flesh and body and the shame of need in every way that doesn't serve your survival, only so that you could find yourselves here, tending to the pieces of each other that have suffered from neglect. He reminds you of the in-between now, the soft spots of your heart, your soul, reminds you of the things long neglected as he licks long stripes up your inner legs, rests his face in the vee of your body, makes you see stars in the black of the ship. Your thoughts are far away from you now, but you still catch yourself wondering about supernovas, about the burst of light and energy that marks a star's dying breath. You think, dimly, that it must feel something like this, like trading a lifetime for one brief and spectacular moment. You, too, would trade every ounce of stardust in your possession just to feel it again.</p><p>He crawls up your body when you stop shaking, when your breath resumes some identifiable rhythm. He's trying to check in with you, trying to make sure that was okay, exchanging the tastes of your body while he investigates the limits of what you have to give. You appreciate the gesture, but you've already decided to give him everything. You wind a leg against his knee instead, one hand on his hip while the other cradles the back of his head, and throw the weight of him to the right of you, shielding the body in your hands against the impact of the floor as you do so, because he doesn't have his beskar to protect him, so you will protect him in its place.</p><p>"You always talk this much during sex?" you ask, and right as he tries to give you an answer, you reach down to stroke him. Whatever he wanted to say comes out in a quiet, tortured moan, and then a soft laugh at the end.</p><p>"You did that on purpose," he says.</p><p>"Thought that was the idea here," you reply, and then your lips are searching his face, finding his mouth, while your free hand searches the plane of his torso, mapping every muscle and scar that you haven't yet seen with your eyes. The task envelopes your entire being, draws you into the person you know him to be, the body and mind, the hands that still run across every bit of you that he can reach. And then you're the one running your mouth, matching his earlier rhythm, earlier tone, earlier desperation that you could never make known in the light.</p><p>"Thought you were telling me to get off your ship the other day." "Thought you were finally tired of me, wanted me gone for good." "Right after you told me you'd take care of the bounty on my head." "Do you know how fucking confusing that was?"</p><p>And he says, breathless, "Never. I'm never letting you leave."</p><p>When you take him into yourself, finally feel him in the way you've been aching for, when he pulls you back against him, shares your breath once more, stills you for another moment, you know it's true.</p><p>"And then you, what, you promise me I'm safe here?" "Tell me I can trust you?" "And then you manage to fucking convince me?" "Fuck, Din, I don't trust any given sun on any given planet to rise on any given day." "But I trust you." </p><p>You ride him slow and good, ride him for as long as he lets you, until he's flipping you on your back once more and finishing the job. And this time, when the kindling of skin and bone ignites the spark in each of you, you think of deep space again, of the occasional system out there with more than one star, of the twin suns you've heard about on far away planets, bound to each other by a language of physics you can never hope to understand, a gravitational force that would leave you weak in the knees. You think it must feel something like this.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>lmao do you guys remember the first chapter where I wouldn't let them say "fuck"</p><p>Happy New Year, ya'll!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. revelations in the light of day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"So you're telling me it wouldn't make your life ten times easier to have a speeder on a planet like this?"</p><p> "Traffic is worse than it seems. Trust me. Besides, I have the jetpack."<br/>___<br/>That's it that's the chapter</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warning for a lil bit of steamy snuggling + general danger and peril but I super promise it all turns out alright in the end</p><p>idk i just wanted to write a car chase</p><p>ALSO--</p><p>If anyone at Disney is reading this:</p><p>Hire me you cowards.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jutrand is the worst.</p><p>A billion trillion lifeforms all walking in different directions, crowding together, invading the very air you breathe. It's enough to almost make you okay with being stuck in the ship, except the ship is starting to press on you too, and if you don't leave it soon you are certain that the pattern of its wires will be seared into your retinas until the day you die.</p><p>Which is why two days after he starts doing whatever recon he's up to, two days after Din has moved the ship for a third time to a different terrible sector of the planet and parked in a different terrible skyscraper hanger that wouldn't let you even see the polluted smear these lifeforms called a sky, you tell him you need a filter for the Crest.</p><p>"Didn't we just replace that?"</p><p>"For the intake, yeah, but this is for carbon filtration. It's different. Might help with that left engine."</p><p>"Fine. I'll bring one back later."</p><p>"Make sure it's the proper model. Number should end in either 08735 or 08737. Don't get a -36. Heard there was a recall on those, but some vendors are still trying to sell them off."</p><p>"Where'd you hear that?"</p><p>You raise his holotab in answer, your sole source of entertainment when the kid was asleep, your beskar-clad bounty hunter was gone, you were tired of doing repairs, and it was too early in the day to start drinking. "Been reading up. Have to figure out this pre-Imperial mess somehow."</p><p>He nods his head, maybe in appreciation, maybe impressed, maybe just trying to placate you into believing he would pay attention to his parts purchases in any specific detail. "Okay. -35 or -37. Not -36."</p><p>"And <em>don't</em> pick up anything from Draenell Industries. Or Galax Systems."</p><p>"Why?"</p><p>"They make shit parts. And if it's from Eriadu Manufacturing, you can still get it, but make sure you get a discount. A big one."</p><p>"Why? How bad are their parts?"</p><p>"They're not. I just don't like their CEO. And if it's from DynaCorp--"</p><p>"Maker, just--you get it. I'm not going to remember all of this stuff. I'm going by some parts stores anyway. It should be safe enough. Come on. Got your comlink?"</p><p>You pat your cargo pocket reflexively. "Yeah, what kind of amateur do you think I am?"</p><p>"You sure?" There's a tone to his voice that's hard to place, but you'd put it somewhere between amused and annoyed. His helmet tilts to the kid's pram, where the kid in question plays with something distinctly comlink-shaped.</p><p>"That's yours, dude."</p><p>"No it's not, mine's right--"</p><p>You hold your comlink up just as he discovers his is not where he thought it would be. "Told ya."</p><p>His demeanor shifts from "casually in-control of this every-day chaos" to "grumpy that a little green munchkin has outsmarted him but trying not to let it show." He takes two steps to the kid's pram and says, with a patience that does not quite mask his annoyance, "Okay, kid, time to let go." The kid is devastated.</p><p>You grab the bag you use to tote him around and sling it around your shoulders, nestling him inside. "It's okay, bud, I'll let you play with mine later."</p><p>Din gives you a disapproving noise as he fastens his cloak around his neck, holsters his favorite blaster. "Your comlink isn't a toy."</p><p>"Neither is the top of that lever you let him have all the time. Thing is a total choking hazard."</p><p>He scoffs at that. "I've seen him eat entire frogs in one gulp. Bones and all. He's fine."</p><p>You look down at the kid at your hip. "Entire frogs?" you ask him. He burps. "Gross."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Jutrand is the woorrrrssstttt and the sheer amount of people that are always in your way at all times makes you wonder why you laid such a delicate trap to get Din to let you leave the ship with him. Why anyone would want to make a home or career on this planet is far beyond you.</p><p>The Crest is parked in a spot in the sky-hangar that's like 30 floors up, so the elevator ride down is longwinded and annoying, but the kid seems to get a kick out of watching the floating highways of speeders out of the glass walls that surround you, so you guess it's worth it to see his cute little eyes scan the world beyond his little bag. You immediately take this thought back the second the elevator doors open and the smells and sounds of the city hit you full force.</p><p>"Thought you'd be happy to get out of that ship." Din says when he sees the recoil you try to hide. "Wasn't that why you were getting all technical on me?"</p><p>Your frown for multiple reasons, but mostly because you hadn't thought you were being that transparent. "My relationship with crowded cities is complicated. Actually, no, it isn't. I just don't like them."</p><p>"Shame. You'd really clean up in a place like this."</p><p>"I'd--what?"</p><p>"As a technician. Lots of ships in bad shape. Local economy drives the price of everything way up. You could probably charge double whatever you're costing me and get away with it."</p><p>"Huh. So does that mean you're willing to give me 40% of your cut this time around?"</p><p>"40% of the bounty that I'm not getting because it's on your head?" you can almost hear the skeptical eyebrow he raises at you in his voice.</p><p>"Right, yeah, never mind, you can keep that." </p><p>"Thought so. Come on, this way. And keep an eye out."</p><p>"Yeah, whatever." Too many people. Too many Maker-forsaken lifeforms in your way all the time. How did anyone get anywhere on foot in a city like this? "Ever think about getting a speeder to take with you from planet to planet?"</p><p>A warm pressure finds its way on your lower back, curling ever so slightly around your waist. You start, then relax when you realize it's his hand, keeping you close to him in the crowd. "What, you want an entirely different vehicle to have to tune up?"</p><p>"Would make for a nice variation."</p><p>"Where would we even keep it?"</p><p>"It could probably squeeze into the cargo bay if we cleared everything else out."</p><p>"Everything else? Like all those important spare parts you made me get? Not to mention weapons, food, tools, the kid's crib--"</p><p>"Hey, I'm just trying to come up with solutions here."</p><p>"Uh-huh, sure you are." He squeezes your side ever so slightly, a gesture that speaks of humor and affection, of the closeness that's been rapidly developing between you both in recent days. You turn your face away from him as a smile claims your face, trying to keep your head on straight in an increasingly dangerous galaxy. You're sure he catches a glimpse anyway.</p><p>It makes you think of the morning you woke up next to him, certain of the impending artificial dawn but confused by the dark until the warmth from his skin ebbed into your consciousness, strong arms around your stomach, your shoulders, bare skin pressing behind you, the scratchy wool of his cloak shielding you from the chilled air of the ship.</p><p>And then a voice, low, tentative, responding to your gentle stirrings. "Hey. You awake?"</p><p>You made a low noise in your throat, not quite alert, not quite asleep. You tried again, whispered, "Yeah."</p><p>A hand came up to adjust the makeshift blanket over you, caressing your shoulders, then the side of your neck. "You okay?"</p><p>It took you a second to understand that he meant, <em>are you okay with this? Are you okay with waking up in the dark, on the floor of my ship? Are you okay waking up with me next to you? Are you okay with the way we made each other feel?</em></p><p>You made another low noise, almost a sigh, a note of satisfaction, wistful and tinged with disbelief. You turned to face him, joints protesting at the hard cold floor but unable to really make you care. You couldn't see him this way, not really, but the glow of the control panel, of a few other buttons on the wall, helped you take in his silhouette, the strong body you acquainted yourself with hours before, the one you reached out to in this moment, the muscle and scar tissue and undeniable warmth of your client-boss-roommate-friend-guardian-partner and now…now something entirely different. "I thought I dreamed this."</p><p>He found your hand as it wandered his body, took your fingers to his lips and placed a kiss on each of them, along with a nervous question mumbled into your knuckles. "So that was…good for you?"</p><p>You smiled at his nerves, his shyness, exhaled in surprise at his question. "Yeah. That was…that was good. That was really good."</p><p>He hummed, placed another kiss on your hand. "Good."</p><p>"Was that--" your turn to be unsure, uncertain, shy. "Was that good for you?"</p><p>The lips on your fingers twitched. You felt the smile he pressed into your skin. "Yeah. That was good."</p><p>"Oh," you said, and the you let out a light, nervous breath. "Good."</p><p>"Yeah. Good."</p><p>You felt like an idiot for a second, parroting bits of conversation that he gave you, at a loss for what to say or do next, but then a large hand cradled your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, thumb rubbing small circles into your cheek, reminding you of the way he first kissed you, embedded in the panels of a crashed ship. He pulled you closer to him, kissed you again in a lazy morning retelling of his movements the previous night, pulled back ever so slightly as you relaxed into his touch. "Sleep well?"</p><p>"Yeah," you said, and it was only a partial lie. The floor of the ship had almost certainly done unspeakable things to your back, but your regular nighttime terrors had been chased away, if only for a few hours. And he was so warm. So gentle. "What are you doing?" </p><p>"I'm just--I wanted to--wanna look at you. Feel you." There was a delicate touch grazing your features, your brow, your nose, the bone of your cheek. Fingers came down to trace your lips, the smile that his words left you with. You'd forgotten that you were not the only one who couldn't rely on sight, having gotten used to being blindfolded in his presence now and then. "Can't see you when we're like this. Gotta take you in some other way."</p><p>"I--is it allowed if I--"</p><p>Sensing what you meant, he answered the question you couldn't figure out how to ask, bringing your hand up to his lips again, kissing your palm, placing it on his jaw. "Whatever you want," he said, and you knew there were limits to this offering, but you took what was given anyway, tracing the edges of his face, caressing what was forbidden to you, feeling his smile like he felt yours.</p><p>"Who knew you were such a sap? Gonna have to tell everyone I know."</p><p>He captured your wrist, pecked a line down your forearm, hummed. "Can't let you do that, cyare. Got a reputation to protect."</p><p>"Yeah? You? The fearsome Mandalorian who melted in my arms last night?"</p><p>He rolled closer to you, continued his path up your arm, landing on your neck, finding the spot you so enjoyed, drawing a shallow gasp from you. "I remember it the other way around. Ex-rebel pilot. Mystery woman. Absolutely wrecked under me."</p><p> "You would remember it that way," you said, closing your eyes in a fruitless effort to distance yourself from the affect his tongue was having on your skin, the gentle drag of teeth across your pulse point. "But I know what I felt."</p><p>He shifted over you, caged you with his body, wandered down your neck ever so slightly. "Maybe I have to remind you."</p><p>And then he--</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Nope. No. This is not what you are supposed to be thinking about. You are supposed to be keeping an eye out on this infested rock of a planet for suspicious looking folks because at any given time, the Empire could rear their ugly heads and come after you, your boss-roommate-partner, and his weird green kid. You are not supposed to be thinking about that thing he did with his tongue or the way his voice broke into a laugh and his body jerked from your hands when you found out he was ever so slightly ticklish on his--</p><p>Nope. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about how fucking psyched you've been to be around him in any capacity ever since, about how much less grumpy he seems on the whole.</p><p>What you are thinking about is--</p><p>The people, lifeforms around you, scanning the crowds, a subtle glance behind you…yup, there you go, now you're getting into a rhythm. Of course you are. You're a professional. Or as close to one as you can get. Back on track. What were you talking about? Speeders. Right, speeders, of course. "So you're telling me it wouldn't make your life ten times easier to have a speeder on a planet like this?" You look up at the lines of floating vehicles far above you, zooming along an invisible road.</p><p>He follows your gaze, looks back down at you. "Traffic is worse than it seems. Trust me. Besides, I have the jetpack."</p><p>"Huh. Oh yeah. Lucky you."</p><p>"Yup. To the right here, it's not far now."</p><p>But something--someone--has caught your eye. "Right. Okay. So what are we doing about that Cerean about 12 paces behind us?"</p><p>"The one who's got a death glare focused on the back of my helmet?"</p><p>"That's the one."</p><p>"I see her," he says casually as you both round the corner. "Come on, let's see if she follows." He tugs you closer to him, leads you into a narrow alleyway as he follows behind, then withdraws his arm from your waist, opting for his blaster instead. You bring the kid in his bag into your arms, clutch him tighter to you, get ready to run if needed.</p><p>You hold your breath, count to ten, focusing on the opening of the ally, waiting for her to appear. When she does, she passes quickly, unaware of your position, unaware that the three of you are gone from her line of sight. You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. Din holsters his blaster. "Thought so."</p><p>"What?" you say absentmindedly, but most of your attention has been pulled to the kid, poking him in the cheek in an effort to make him laugh, diffuse the tension.</p><p>"Cereans can be like that. Intense without knowing. Unnerving on occasion, but not really the bounty hunting type. Kid okay?"</p><p>The kid in question reaches out his arms. Din takes him from you, bounces him a bit against his chest plate. "What do you think? Enough excitement for you today?"</p><p>The little one babbles something incoherently, but generally seems unfazed. "I think he thinks we're paranoid," you offer.</p><p>"Probably," he agrees, giving the kid a final bounce and returning him to his place in your bag. "Come on, let's make this quick."</p><p>You wonder if he's rethinking his decision to let you accompany him on an outing. You definitely think you're rethinking it, but you were lukewarm on the idea to begin with. Even if it was your idea in the first place. You don't like it here. Jutrand is the <em>worst.</em></p><p>Even so, when you emerge into whatever passes as sunlight on this planet, staying close to the Mandalorian in the thrum of people on the streets, you are taken <em>completely off guard</em> when someone body slams you into the ground from behind. Your quick reaction skills leave you with just enough time to put your arms out in front of you to break your fall and keep you from crushing the kid, one hand trying to steady the swaying bag as you land. You try to push off from the ground, try to get into a defensive position, but then a kick to your side knocks you askew, and a firm boot planted on your back brings you down, hard.</p><p>You're in trouble.</p><p>In your panic and pain, you can't even draw in a breath to call for help immediately, and the adrenaline all but overwhelms you as a pair of hands turns you over and sticks a blaster in your face. Two men hover over you, hands searching, and you think you're being mugged for a second, mugged in broad daylight, fuck this planet, but then one of them zeros in on the back slung across your shoulder. You realize that this isn't a mugging. It's a kidnapping. </p><p>One of them says, "Over here. We got it."</p><p>Somewhere behind you is the sound of a blaster being fired once, twice. Anything else is muffled by the screams of passerbys trying to get away.</p><p>But you do feel a slight rustling coming from the bag strewn at your side, maybe hear a soft, panicked little cry. </p><p>Your protective instincts jar you into action. You're able to move the blaster out of your face and knee the offending idiot to your right out of the way, but you can't get into a good defensive position before the idiot to your left lands a harsh blow to your face. Your ears ring. The blaster is aimed back at your jaw by the time you open your eyes and come back to your senses, along with a sharp pull at your hair that makes you cry out. Hands pull at the strap on your shoulder, and you're roughly moved around until they can drag it off of you. It happens so fast that you don't even have time to react. </p><p>"We got it. Let's go!" One of the asshats says. They leave you there on the road, an empty place at your side where the kid should be, an erroneous assumption made that you wouldn't be much of a problem anymore. Their mistake.</p><p>Pain twinges in your face and chest as you hurl yourself to your feet, but you ignore it, trying to gain enough momentum to catch up to the one nearest to you. They're taller than you, bigger than you, have longer legs, and you know you don't have much time before they're long gone ahead of you, past the distance you can make up with a quick sprint. You act as fast as you can, aiming for expediency instead of intelligence, and it almost costs you everything. </p><p>"Give him back!" you scream as you lunge at him, knocking the man back down to the road. You have all of two seconds to understand that he is not the one who has the kid right now before he knocks you aside, face first into the ground again. When you look up, you see his blaster in your face once more, and you know that this is it. This is the point where you die. </p><p>You don't even reach for your own blaster. There wouldn't be enough time.</p><p>Instead, your heart seizes as you think about the kid, scared among strangers, about Din, fighting his own battle behind you, about the place you claimed for yourself on the Razor Crest and the ion converter you never found a proper replacement for, and fuck, you miss it already. You miss it all. Every second. You stare at the barrel of the blaster aimed at you and wait for it all to be taken from you, wait for the man to pull the trigger. </p><p>Din pulls his first.</p><p>As your would-be murderer falls to the ground, you sit up and turn to find him, shiny beskar scuffed up a bit from his fight, but standing strong among the bodies he felled. "They took him. They've got the kid," you say as you fight to stand up. You chance a glance behind you and watch a handful of air speeders rise into the air. It has to be them. The kid has to be on one of them. "We have to--"</p><p>He moves so swiftly that you don't even notice the steps he takes to close the distance between you until a gloved hand grips your chin and turns you to look at him, tilting your face this way and that to get a better look at the scrapes on your skin.</p><p>"I'm fine. We have to--"</p><p>"Can you run?" His tone leaves no room for any other discussion.</p><p>"Yes," you say. You think you can. "They took--"</p><p>"Back to the Crest." It's all but an order. "Now. I'll handle this."</p><p>His hand leaves your chin and he takes a step back. He presses a button on his vambrace and his jetpack ignites. A moment later and he's gone, taking the fight to somewhere you can't follow. </p><p>Back to the Crest. He told you to go back to the Crest, and given how shot your nerves are, given that you had fully accepted your impending death only moments ago, it might be wise to listen to him. You should listen to him. You really should. And you would. But this was your fault. You were the one that was holding the kid. You were the one that let him go.</p><p>You should listen to him. And you almost do. And then you spot a couple of lonely air speeders, almost certainly belonging to the deceased at your feet. And you don't believe that the universe can send you signs, but if it could, this would be one.</p><p>You've ridden a speeder bike before, loads of times, but never an air speeder, never this far above ground, and never in traffic patterns like this, never mind in a rescue mission. You have flown a Y-Bomber before, though. So yeah. How hard can it be?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>"Don't be mad."</p><p>The comlink is silent for a minute, then it sparks to life, relaying sounds of a shuffle and the air resistance that you can hear all too well from your own end. His voice filters through in another moment. "What is it? Are you hurt?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>"Then tell me later. I'm busy." He disconnects. Frustratingly quick with you. You can't really blame him, though. He has a lot on his plate.</p><p>"I know," you try again. "I can see that."</p><p>"What are you talking about? Where are you?"</p><p>You mean to answer his question, but there are more pressing matters at hand. "Blaster to your right. Green speeder."</p><p>There's a pause on his end, but you can hear a bolt being fired, and his voice comes back a second later. "How--where the hell are you?"</p><p>"Would you believe me if I said I was behind you?"</p><p>Most of your attention has been taken up by familiarizing yourself with the controls and gauges of the speeder you stole--borrowed--whatever. But you do see the Mandalorian's flying form ahead of you, cloak swaying in the wind, as his body tilts slightly for just a second, giving him a chance to look behind him and find you in the traffic. "I told you to go back to the Crest," he barks, and, well, this is exactly why you opened this conversation by asking him not to be mad. "This isn't a game."</p><p>You're going to yell at him for that later, but for now, you figure you have about 10 seconds to convince him to take you seriously before he boots you off his crew for not being able to listen. You give him the highlights of your resume and hope it's enough to sway him. "I have years of ariel combat experience under my belt, flew everything from an X-Wing to an Interceptor. Interceptor was my favorite but they kept me in a Y-Bomber because I was one of the few who could take a beating and still keep her head on straight enough to get the job done. Every Imperial Cruiser I was told to take down, I took down, with the exception of two. Earned honors for a supply run I did in a U-Wing support craft during the Battle in the Enrivi system that helped the 61st Infantry push back Imperial forces. Shot down three TIEs and a Com Jammer while I did so. Do you know how hard it is to shoot <em>anything</em> in a U-Wing? Blaster, two speeders behind you, starboard side. Yellow."</p><p>You watch, still a fair distance behind him, as he takes evasive maneuvers, zig zagging a bit before identifying the speeder and taking out one of its passengers.</p><p>"Listen, you have no idea who you've been keeping from flying your ship. That's my bad. I'll fill you in later. But you're kidding yourself if you're telling me this isn't the exact situation you need my help in. You're a damn good shot and I bet you're good with the jetpack, but I can tell you're having trouble doing both at the same time. I know this isn't a game, and I'm not treating it like one. Get over here. I'll fly, you shoot, we'll get the kid back together."</p><p>He hesitates for a moment, and in that moment you are terrified he is going to reject your offer and, worst case scenario, get hurt, get killed, lose the kid, best case scenario, make you look like a total fool, leave you on the next planet for not being able to listen. Then the comm crackles, and his voice cuts in again. "What's the likelihood that you have a concussion right now?"</p><p>"Honestly? Medium. But that didn't stop me on Esseles."</p><p>Another lull in your bargain. You switch lanes, get into position, just in case, while he takes another evasive maneuver.</p><p>"Counter offer. I distract and draw fire, you get the kid. He's in the T-47 up ahead of me."</p><p>You don't know what a T-47 is. "Uh. The gray one?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>That'll do. "Copy that." You slide the accelerator forward and pick up speed, transitioning from "probably deserves a speeding ticket" to "definitely up to no good." The speeder is shaky, a little unstable, and jumps every now and then in a way you don't like, but it's nothing you can't handle.</p><p>You've never flown an air speeder before, but one of your old squadron buddies did, and he enjoyed it a little too much. Started out as a pilot because he got caught one too many times in some illegal races on Coruscant. Jumped at the opportunity to fly an X-Wing instead of getting stuck in a cell for ten or twelve months. Bragged about his experience when he should have been worried about taking out TIEs. Annoying as shit. But as of right now, you are thankful for his jabber, and thankful that some of it stuck with you. He always said the key to a good air speeder race was sabotaging your vehicle's auto-navigation systems so you were no longer bound to stay in the skylanes and travel among pre-planned routes.</p><p>Whoever normally flew this speeder had left a knife in the front seat. How convenient for you. </p><p>One eye on the sky, you take the knife and jam in into the auto-nav display. The screen goes dark and the check engine light turns on. You count it as a success. Then, you <em>fly.</em></p><p>Having full control of tilt and elevation comes in handy as your weave in and out of traffic. There's lots of curses and rude hand gestures thrown your way as you make some questionable moves, and in any other situation, you're sure you would deserve them. But you're more worried about the kid right now. Din, for his part, dove into the backseat of the yellow speeder that was giving him trouble and hasn't yet emerged, but you think you can see him engaged in an awkward fistfight. Another speeder ahead of him pulls back, and a couple blasters aim his way. If nothing else, that Mandalorian and his shiny armor make for a visually stunning target. </p><p>You use the distraction to continue pulling ahead, very quickly surpassing him and the very intentional mess he caused. You worry for a second, but then you remember he can probably make a quick escape with his jetpack as soon the heat gets to be too much. You keep your eyes on the bigger prize, the T-47 that's now only a bit ahead of you.</p><p>You have a perfect shot if you wanted to take down the pilot, but that could cause a crash, which would hurt the kid, and probably you once you inevitably crashed into it, and probably a whole lot of other people once they inevitably crashed into you. You could take down the passenger. It would alert the group to your motives, but it would also eliminate at least one threat, and maybe let the kid know that you were coming for him.</p><p>Before you can decide on what move to make, your speeder jolts forward. A look in the rearview mirror reveals a couple idiots brandishing blasters as the speeder gears up to ram your bumper again. You duck down into the low seat as they start firing. Of course someone would notice you and the reckless moves you were pulling to get to the kid. You were stupid to think otherwise.</p><p>One hand steers as best as you can in this position while the other snatches your comlink. "Taking fire."</p><p>A pause, then a grunt, then a string of curses from a voice that does not sound like Din's, then a blaster, and then, finally, Din's voice. "Can you handle it yourself?" he says. His tone implies that it would best if you did.</p><p>Uh. "Sure." You say, although you're not really sure. Normally when you had to shoot while flying, all of the controls were in the same place. And you had radar to help your aim. And a better turning radius. And the ability to go into hyperspace, just in case. And, your favorite, heat seeking missiles. </p><p>You drop the commlink back in your pocket and unholster your blaster, but you can hear him say something along the lines of "If it gets too much, pull off and head back," and no, hell no, not when it took this much convincing to let you tag along with him in the first place, not when you were this close to getting the kid back.</p><p>You want to turn around and return fire, but there's a bend in the skylane coming up, and if you don't concentrate on getting through that first, you will absolutely crash, especially with the speed you're going at. Very unfortunately, this means that there's enough of a commotion behind you for a long enough time that the passenger of the gray T-47 in front of you has noticed your presence and has also opted to fire on you, which means, as far as you're concerned, you're in the middle of a death sandwich. You need to remedy this.</p><p>You maneuver into the lane to the right, decelerate ever so slightly, then match speed with the speeder that was tailing you, leaving you slightly behind and to their right. You thank the maker that you still have a pilot's touch and did all of that in record time, leaving them confused and poorly defended when you start firing your blaster. The passenger goes down, but the pilot is a quick thinker. He rams your speeder, jostles you hard. You thank the maker again, this time for seatbelts. You love your seatbelt. Your seatbelt is everything to you right now. </p><p>You drop your blaster and concentrate on keeping your speeder steady. His speeder pulls off slightly and rams you again, ever harder, almost enough to push you off the skylane altogether. You have to fight to straighten yourself out. He pulls off again, likely attempting to finish the job, but this time your hand is ready at the elevation control. You descend just in time to miss the impact. His speeder goes off the ramp, and for good measure, you fire a few shots at him as you return to your previous height. You miss every single one, but feel victorious all the same.</p><p>This was absolutely <em>nothing</em> like flying a Y-bomber. Maybe, <em>maybe</em> an A-Wing if the A-Wings were built like s<em>hit.</em></p><p>The T-47 has gained a fair amount of distance in front of you, and it's a good thing you look when you do, because it has pulled off into an exit ramp that you absolutely would have missed. You follow and radio Din to let him know where it's headed.</p><p>"Copy. That speeder that got knocked off the skylane wasn't you, right?"</p><p>"I'm offended you even have to ask that question."</p><p>"Fuck, yeah, never mind, he's merged back on and he's shooting at me."</p><p>You can hear the blaster bolts in the background. "Have fun with that."</p><p>"Just keep following--<em>dank farrik</em>--keep following the kid."</p><p>"Is he trying to ram you off? That guy flies like a maniac."</p><p>"No fucking shit." </p><p>You push the accelerator as far as you dare. As the minutes tick by, you inch closer to your goal. You decelerate once you are directly behind the T-47 once again, and once again you're caught in the problem of not knowing exactly what to do and how exactly to protect the precious cargo on board.</p><p>Your hair whips around you in the open air as you consider. It's another difference between an air speeder and a Y-bomber. No roof on this ship.</p><p>It gives you a terrible idea that you absolutely do not want to follow through with.</p><p>You're running out of time though. Any second the passenger in the T-47 could turn around and fire, or another one of their friends could show up. Worse, they might reach their destination, which could include a whole lot of trouble. You try the comlink, hoping for an update, another way out. "Hey, Mando?"</p><p>Precious seconds tick by. No answer.</p><p>Fine.</p><p>You jam your knife into the accelerator slot to keep it in place, and in turn, keep the ship as steady as possible. You don't need any bumps jostling you while you try to do this.</p><p>Comlink in a pocket on your vest, blaster in hand and at the ready, you unbuckle your seatbelt and stand. One leg over the windshield, then the other. Don't look down. Don't look anywhere. Fuck.</p><p>Fuck fuck fuck--</p><p>You inch forward on the hood of the vehicle, convinced at any moment you will lose your balance and go tumbling down below. When you reach the end of your speeder, you have to contend with the distance between you and the T-47. It's not much. It would be no problem if you were on land. But you're not on land. And one wrong move--</p><p>Don't think about it. Just close your eyes--no, don't close your eyes. Keep your eyes open. That's very important.</p><p>Fuck. They never made you do <em>anything</em> like this in the Rebellion.</p><p>You resolve to count to three before jumping. You're on two and half when your commlink crackles again, and by some miracle, you're able to hear it over the wind that roars around you. "What the <em>hell</em> are you doing?"</p><p>You very slowly turn your head to look behind you and see the Mandalorian approaching via jetpack, very quickly.</p><p>"Sit your ass back down in your speeder."</p><p>You do <em>not</em> need him to tell you twice. You are so so so very happy when you click your seatbelt back on and take full control of the vehicle. "Passenger is armed," you say into the commlink. By now, Din has caught up with you, flying alongside your ship on the right. "Don't know about the pilot. No eyes on the kid yet."</p><p>"Copy that. He's there. I can see him with the thermal filter. Can you pull to the right?"</p><p>You're about to answer when the speeder in front of you taps the breaks and you hit it, not enough to bring you both to a stop but hard enough to dent the steel of the hood in front of you, taking your breath away for the umpteenth time that day. The control panel beeps. The check engine light blinks again, this time red. This isn't good.</p><p>The passenger starts firing again, and that isn't good either. There are lots of things that aren't good here.</p><p>Din puts himself between you and the T-47, opening up a path for you to pull to the right. You do so, feeling the engine stutter beneath you. Your stomach sinks. You watch Din exchange words with the kidnappers, words you can't hear without the aid of the commlink turned on. In the end, it doesn't matter. Din shoots, scoops up the kid, and kicks at the steering mechanism. </p><p>"Hey, wait, before you destroy that speeder--"</p><p>Too late. The speeder runs off the skylane, tilts to the side, hits a construction crane that has <em>no business</em> being this close to highway traffic, all while the Mandalorian gracefully hops onto your vehicle and settles into the seat next to you, bundle of joy in hand. Poor kid looks absolutely terrified</p><p>"Okay, there we go. You're okay kid, we've got you." He turns to you as he shushes the kid. "What were you saying?"</p><p>"Doesn't matter."</p><p>"You don't have to fly low anymore. Should be fine to get back on the skylane."</p><p>"About that."</p><p>"What's wrong? Why are we losing altitude?"</p><p>"You might want to jetpack the kid out of here."</p><p>
  <em>"What's wrong?"</em>
</p><p>"I don't know, okay! I don't really have time to run the diagnostics."</p><p>"Just jiggle the altitude control. Here, let me--"</p><p>You slap his hand out of the way. "What do you call this? That's what I'm doing. I'm jiggling the--Maker, it's not working."</p><p>"Give me the--would you just--you're not jiggling it right. It's stuck. Just--"</p><p>"Do you hear that? That's the sound of the check engine indicator. It is not <em>stuck</em>. It's--"</p><p>"We're losing altitude. Just--"</p><p>"I <em>know!</em> I know, fuck, where's the eject button?"</p><p>"This isn't an X-wing or whatever. There is no eject button. Just jiggle the--"</p><p>"I AM!" You jiggle it extra hard for emphasis. "What do you mean there's no eject button?"</p><p>"Have you--is this your first time flying one of these?"</p><p>"I've flown half the ships that were in production during the war. What does it matter?"</p><p>"You've never--and you're just telling me this now?"</p><p>"I never flew the Delta-7 before I escaped on it. It's <em>fine,</em> just let me--"</p><p>"What--you--it's not---you told me you crashed the Delta-7! It's not--"</p><p>"Yeah, but it was fine."</p><p>"This is not <em>fine</em>."</p><p>"Just let me--"</p><p>"Let you <em>what?</em> What are you going to do?"</p><p>"Let me <em>think.</em> We're not in free-fall, okay? There's still a little something in the altitude thrusters that's slowing us down. I can figure this out."</p><p>"What the hell happened to the navigation?"</p><p>"Had to disable it. Now shut up."</p><p>"Disable--what do you mean you had to disable it? You disabled the distress beacon."</p><p>"I had to so I could work around the skylane. Stop talking!"</p><p>"Work around the--you know there's a button to disable that, right? You didn't have to <em>stab the fucking panel!</em>"</p><p>"Will you just jetpack the kid out of here already? Get out of--stop! Stop pressing all the buttons! I've got this, okay? Go! Why are you still here?"</p><p>"I'm--shit--I'm out of fuel, okay? I can't--what are you doing now?"</p><p>"There's a balcony."</p><p>"And? Why are you accelerating? We don't need more speed right now."</p><p>"Will you stop yelling at me? You're scaring the kid."</p><p>"You said you could do this. I never should have--"</p><p>"I <em>am</em> doing this. And I'm doing this all with you yelling in my ear. So shut the <em>fuck</em> up, put your damn seatbelt on, and stop being the worst backseat pilot on this side of the parsec. Hands to yourself or so help me I will. Shoot you."</p><p>Something in your voice must hit him exactly the way you want it to. He doesn't say another word, just wraps his arms a little tighter around the kid, who's fully bawling now. Yeah, okay, you'll need to apologize later. To both of them.</p><p>Anyway, bigger problems to deal with here. </p><p>It really isn't a bad plan. The balcony is pretty high up, but you're higher, and if your forward thrust cooperates--which it has so far--you should be able to use the balcony to break your fall and slow your crash, preventing anything terribly lethal in the process. Now that it's coming into view, you can see a bunch of tables and chairs and not a person in sight. It's as perfect a runway as you're going to get. If you can steer into a spin as you're landing, all the better to decrease your momentum and hope you don't slip off the other side. Crash landing 101.</p><p>"Brace for impact," you say. Next to you, Din curls around the kid as much as he can, save for a hand that latches onto your thigh, seeking some amount of comfort or reassurance, or otherwise completely terrified that you are going to kill him in a terrible, fiery crash. You might find in insulting in another situation, but for now, you don't let it register. You have bigger things to worry about, and in any case, you've done this before. A second later, you cut the forward thrust completely and prepare to turn. The landing hurts, causes the ship to bounce wildly, rudely reminds you of every hit you took to the face today, but doesn't quite have it in itself to kill you, so as soon as you make contact, you cut the engine and em&gt;turn, turn, turn.</p><p>It's a long balcony. Just long enough with just enough tables and chairs. You bump into the opposing safety banister, a final impact, but not hard enough to break it. The ship comes to a stuttering halt.</p><p>You wiggle your toes, wiggle your feet, wiggle your knees, wiggle your hips, pleased to find everything moving and aching as it should. Not today, crash-induced paralysis. Not today.</p><p>You turn to your passenger, still curled around the kid. "You good?"</p><p>A moment passes before he turns to look at you and says, slowly, "I can't decide whether to yell at you or thank you."</p><p>"Make your mind up on the way back to the Crest," you say. You reach out to take the little one from his lap, since you're a little less shell-shocked than his father at the moment. Kiddo is still crying a little bit, probably scared out of his mind, which makes sense. You hold him tight to your chest. "I know. I know. Shhhh, everything's okay now. Everything's fine."</p><p>"Fuck," Din says next to you, and in the aftermath of the crash, you almost don't acknowledge it, but it sounds sudden, urgent. </p><p>You look back at him. "What's wrong."</p><p>"It couldn't have been any other balcony in the galaxy." He says, mostly to himself. </p><p>You're about to ask him to clarify what he means, but then you hear a voice behind you, ringing distinctly through a vocoder that sounds exactly like a stormtrooper helmet, overzealous and overconfident in their own power. "Hey! Hands where I can see them!"</p><p>You freeze, your back to the voice, the multiple sets of footsteps that now approach you. It's possible they haven't seen the kid yet, with your body hiding him from view. You're looking into the Mandalorain's helmet as he very slowly raises his hands. If he's complying, at least at this stage, it means there's too many too take on at once, or he doesn't have a clean shot, or maybe his blaster is out. Or maybe there's too high a chance that you and the kid would be caught in the crossfire. It probably means you're at least a little fucked.</p><p>You'd give anything to be able to see his face right now, if only to communicate the barest hint of a plan, but the visor gives away nothing but the distorted reflection of the white suits of armor behind you.</p><p>"I said hands up!"</p><p>You can't. If you move your hands, they'll see the kid. If you move your hands, this is all over.</p><p>"What do I do?" You whisper, trying to keep the terror from your voice, trying to keep your head on. He doesn't answer.</p><p>"Out of the speeder. Let's go. I'm not asking again."</p><p>One of them roughly grabs your arm, pulling you out of the vehicle. It causes you to turn and face your newest enemy, 7 or 8 of them, all with guns pointing at you. You still have one hand around the kid, but it's not enough to keep him safe, not enough to shield him completely from--</p><p>"What do you have there? Lower your hand. I will shoot. You, Mandalorian, out of the vehicle."</p><p>Fuck fuck fuck--</p><p>There must have been a drop or two of fuel left in his tank, because suddenly Din's jetpack kicks on for half a second. It's enough to enable him to jump over you, put himself between you and all but one of the Imps. They draw on him, but something, many somethings, fly from Din's wrist, tiny little missiles. You don't see them land, don't waste time getting distracted by the distraction. You yank your arm from the grip of the Imp next to you, roll away from him, and whip your blaster out as you crouch around the side of the crashed ship for cover, all while shielding the kid as best you can. Turns out, it isn't needed. Every single one of them was down.</p><p>"What was that?"</p><p>"Whistling birds. Come on, let's go."</p><p>"Whistling--what? Birds?"</p><p>"Add it to the list of things we need to talk about later. Up. Come on. We've got to get on the ground before anyone else notices."</p><p>He waves you forward, blaster out as you follow him from behind, reminding you vaguely of the first time you two did this on the planet he picked you up from. Only this time, a scared little child is sinking his claws into your neck, and your heart breaks for him. He definitely deserves nap time as quickly as you can get it to him. "Ground is a bad idea. Roof is better."</p><p>"What are you talking about?"</p><p>You both enter the building, looking for a staircase or elevator. The room looks like it was set up for a dinner party. That you, heh, literally just crashed. Thankfully, anyone else who may have been around when you landed has scattered. The room is empty. "We need speed and distance. There's a bunch of speeders parked on the roof. Let's steal one and get out of here."</p><p>"Damn it," he says, but only because he realizes you're right. "You have no idea how much I do not want to get into another speeder right now."</p><p>"Then close your eyes and let me fly."</p><p>"That doesn't help."</p><p>"The alternative is walking who knows how long back to the ship."</p><p>"I know, I know, you made your point. We'll steal a speeder. Just--I'm flying."</p><p>This is incredibly offensive to you, having just pulled of a Grade A crash landing that you all walked away from, immediately after having a pretty clean speeder-chase when it was all said and done. You can not let this stand. </p><p>"Only if you get there first," you say in challenge. You dart in front of him, take the lead on clearing the hallways and finding the way to the roof yourself. </p><p>"You--fuck--you don't have any armor!" he whisper-yells. You ignore his protests, but you do think you hear a grumbled "walking disaster," as he begrudgingly catches up to you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the end, you convince him to let you fly. It's nothing like piloting in your rebellion days, but it's the first taste you've gotten in a while, and you're not about to let it go if you don't have to. You didn't realize how much you missed it. And you can tell he's absolutely exhausted, especially in the way he doesn't put up much of a fight.</p><p>On the way back, you see a couple New Republic forces checking out some mess of a speeder that crashed into a construction crane that was waaaay too close to high way traffic. You shake your head at the sight, say something like "Gosh, people really don't know how to fly these days. A tragic accident." You aren't sure, but you think it brings a low laugh from your passenger.</p><p>He rocks the kid in his arms the whole way home, and eventually gets him to stop sniffling and lull him to sleep. You tell Din that you think he deserves an entire box of cookies for getting through the day. Din agrees.</p><p>You find the button that disables the navigation without sabotaging your instruments, preferring complete control over any pesky autopilot that thought it knew more than you. You don't find an eject button. It still confuses you.</p><p>Halfway back, you look at the way your passenger sits as far away from the window as possible while trying not to make it obvious. There's the possibility it's actually an attempt to sit a bit closer to you, but you don't buy it. Doesn’t feel right. You chance a question, a thought you've been wondering about for a while. "You're afraid of heights, aren't you?"</p><p>His helmet turns to you, but he doesn't say anything.</p><p>"Sorry, I don't mean to, like, assume or anything. You can tell me to fuck off if you want, I just…figured that was why you always want to be the one flying."</p><p>He doesn't respond, not for several minutes, and you're content to let the subject rest. When he speaks again, he turns the tables on you.</p><p>"You're claustrophobic." It's not defensive, doesn't come off like an accusation or something you should be ashamed of. He says it more like a careful observation he's put a lot of thought into, same as you.</p><p>Even so, you stiffen, a little caught off guard at being called out in this way. "What?"</p><p>"Same 'fuck off' rules apply," he says. "But I'm guessing that's why you don't like big cities. Too much pressing in on you."</p><p>You hum at his explanation, mulling it over and trying to figure out how to put it into words. "Not quite."</p><p>"How far off am I?"</p><p>"Not too far, actually. I don't mind tight spaces. Actually almost prefer them sometimes. I'm fine in the bunk of your ship. And, I mean, there's just no way you can fly any of the Wings into battle if you're totally claustrophobic. It's a tight squeeze in there. But the openness of space and sky helps, probably. Great view and all."</p><p>"Then what is it about crowded spaces?"</p><p>"I think…" you take some more time to walk yourself through an explanation. "I think it's…maybe the fact that I can't see that kind of openness in a city like this. Can't really see the sky because of all the skyscrapers. Can't see the land because of all the people and the buildings in the way. No radar or nav displays to tell me what's around or if something's coming towards me. Can't find…can't find an easy exit, I guess."</p><p>"You can't take control of your environment?" he ventures, maybe a little bit too ready in offering an explanation.</p><p>Still, it helps something click in your head. "Yeah, that's a really good way of putting it, actually. Too many variables I can't count on."</p><p>"So something like this--" he nods to the speeder, the skylanes, "is better for you?"</p><p>"This? This is great. I'm more relaxed right now that I have been in a long time."</p><p>"Despite almost dying multiple times today?"</p><p>"It was really only twice."</p><p>"What do you think 'multiple' means?"</p><p>"I don't know, but I bet you're gonna mansplain it to me."</p><p>He gives you a light shove to the shoulder at that. You try not to laugh at him too hard.</p><p>"By my count, I'd put the number somewhere around three," he says in response, but you're having trouble checking his math.</p><p>"Once when they took the kid, once when the stormtroopers came out of nowhere…what was the third time?"</p><p>"Did you forget the balcony crash?"</p><p>"Oh, that?" You glance at him to see if he's joking, but he looks as serious as ever. "That was fine. I knew we were gonna get out of that okay."</p><p>"Makes one of us," he grumps.</p><p>You shrug. "Stuff like that was an occupational hazard way back when. I'm used to it. But yeah, flying like this, every speeder going the way it should, being able to calculate all the possible outcomes even if they don't do what they're supposed to do…I don't know. It's like a language I've learned to speak. And being able to speak it is pretty calming."</p><p>The conversation lulls. You pull off the main skylane and merge onto another, finding your way back to the ship as best you can.</p><p>"It's not really the heights for me," he says after a bit, picking up your earlier question. "It's more that I…I don't know…would you call me a control freak if I…"</p><p>"If you said it was about control?"</p><p>The helmet nods. You shake your head in turn.</p><p>"That makes a lot of sense. I mean, I think the control is why I like it so much. And, well, I'm way better in a crash if I'm the one piloting. Just look at the way I reacted after the Crest crashed. If that's the way that makes the most sense to you to travel…yeah, I don't think that makes you a control freak at all."</p><p>"It's not…maybe that's not even the right way of putting it. Maybe sometimes, but I…I think I just like something to hold on to. Some sort of physical reminder that if there's a problem, I can figure out a way to fix it with what's in front of me. Hell, sometimes on the Crest I'll tilt the ship a little for no reason, just to make sure it's still working like it should."</p><p>You nod your head, putting some pieces together. His explanation definitely tracks with the minor freak-out he had just before your speeder crashed, although you couldn't really blame anyone for losing their cool in that situation. Not everyone has walked away from as many crash landings as you have. "So what about the jetpack?"</p><p>He looks at you for a moment, considers his response. "You can't tell anyone. Hey, look me in the eye and tell me you won't tell anyone. I mean it."</p><p>You take your eyes off the sky in front of you and do your best to comply with his request. "I promise I won't tell anyone. Rebel's honor." He nods at you. Good enough. You bring your attention back to flying.</p><p>"Jetpack scares the shit out of me."</p><p>It's the kind of thing you would laugh at if he weren't so serious, but to be honest, it makes a lot of sense. You can't blame him. You tell him as much. "You steer with your body, right? That sounds…I mean, first of all, that sounds exhausting, but also like something I would completely mess up. There's not even really a machine to tell you if something's wrong, is there?"</p><p>"There's some indicators on my helmet display, and my vambrace has some information on it, but that's it. There's nothing…nothing to hold on to."</p><p>You nod, realizing for the first time how exposed it must feel to use one of those, realizing in the next moment that he didn't even hesitate earlier that day before lifting off to save the kid. You wouldn't have even guessed. He seemed fearless in that moment.</p><p>You want to tell him this, want to tell him what a good front he puts up for the world, what a good guardian he is for the kid, a proper father to him, a protector, but all of that gets lost in the wind between you. Instead, you let go of the controls with your right hand, bring it closer to him, an offering. "I know it's not the same," you say, and fuck, this sounds so ridiculous, but you finish the thought anyway. "But if you want, you can hold on to me. Anytime."</p><p>His helmet turns from your hand to your face and then back again, and you feel stupid, this is so stupid, this man who kicks ass on the regular certainly doesn't need to hold your hand and you are both smart enough to know that, but then for some reason he takes it anyway, twines his leather glove with your fingers, gives you two quick, gentle squeezes and then stays there. And he doesn't say anything else, doesn't acknowledge your stupid gesture in any other way, but you still have butterflies in your stomach, stars in your head.</p><p>"How much longer 'til we get back to the Crest anyway? Feels like flying back is taking longer than the trip before."</p><p>"That's cause we're not breaking any traffic laws this time. Haven't had a single person flip me off this entire ride. It's been nice."</p><p>He laughs softly, gives your hand another squeeze, and you think you could stay like this forever, flying this stupid speeder that doesn't even have a stupid eject button.</p><p>And then-- "Oh, wait, shit, you're totally right. I was supposed to get off two exits ago."</p><p>And then he says, "Walking disaster has now been upgraded to a flying disaster."</p><p>And then you say, "Of the two of us, you are still the only one to have tripped over a stationary pit droid."</p><p>And then he huffs at that, comes back with an, "Okay, I'm officially invoking the 'fuck off' rule." He squeezes your hand again, though. You know he doesn't mean it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>might post another chapter filled just with aftermath snippets, because these two are NOT done snarking each other over this whole ordeal, but, sheesh, this thing was getting long.</p><p> </p><p>Hmmm what else...uh, wear your seatbelts, use your blinker, don't drive like a maniac, use protection and uhhhhh oh yeah don't be a fascist prick (you'd think that last one would go without saying, but *gestures everywhere*)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. after the storm (I will be here)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Maybe we can be the kind of people that tell each other things."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ya'll this is literally just snark and feelings and I have no regrets </p><p>(but also this was literally supposed to be a quick drabble and um....several thousand words later it is clearly not that..so uh...I think I have a problem)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You find somewhere inconspicuous to park your stolen speeder, but to be honest, Jutrand strikes you as the kind of planet where nobody bats an eye about anything, ever. Before you leave it for good, you ask Din if you can find a way to squeeze it onto the Crest, to which he replies, "Fuck no."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're boarding the elevator to take you back to the floor of the skyhanger where the Crest is when Din bites out another curse, and by now you're so ready for something else to go wrong with this day that your hand moves instinctively to your blaster. "What is it?"</p><p>"Never picked up that filter."</p><p>Oh. Fuck. Whatever.</p><p>"I'll grab it tomorrow. No way I'm working on anything else on that ship today."</p><p>"Is it ready to fly right now?"</p><p>"Yeah, why?"</p><p>"We're getting the fuck off this planet."</p><p>Thank. Maker.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The ramp of the Crest descends as you approach, and as it does, a pressing question occurs to you. "So, like, what was the deal with those stormtroopers?"</p><p>"What about them?"</p><p>"I mean, they just so happen to be on the one runway I can get to in an emergency landing?"</p><p>"Not a runway. Not a landing."</p><p>"Fine. Balcony crash. Still. That's like…stunningly inconvenient."</p><p>"Have you ever crashed into a stormtrooper luncheon during a good time in your life?"</p><p>"Fair enough."</p><p>"I was tracking a couple Imperial cells trying to get info on your bounty. As much as the New Republic wants to pretend they have everything under control here, on a planet like this, they're in over their heads."</p><p>"You can say that again. Can't even crack down on routine traffic violations."</p><p>He snorts at that.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Kid goes in the crib, all tuckered out. Your heart twists wondering about the other possible outcomes of this day. You try not to think about it.</p><p>The ship goes in the air, into space, but it barely registers. No longer at the controls of a speeder, the excitement of the day wears on you. He has to say your name three times before you snap to attention.</p><p>"You okay?"</p><p>"Yeah," you say quickly, automatically. After a second, you add, "just tired."</p><p>He nods. "That jaw of yours probably isn't helping. Come on, let's go patch you up."</p><p>You don't understand what he means for a moment, but your adrenaline has worn off enough for a headache to come in, and it must have something to do with that. You touch a hand to your face and flinch, finding it swollen, painful. "This isn't too bad. I've got it."</p><p>"Last time I left you to patch yourself up, you walked around for a day and half with broken ribs."</p><p>"They were not broken. They were, like, bruised at the very worst."</p><p>"Come on. Up. I'm too tired to fight about this, and I know you are too."</p><p>He makes a compelling argument.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You sit on the workbench while he works through the med cabinet looking for bacta-this and stim-that. When he has what he wants, he stands in front of you, removes his gloves, directs you to look at him.</p><p>"What is it?"</p><p>"Making sure your pupils are even. Stop fidgeting."</p><p>"Sorry."</p><p>"It's fine. Here, follow my finger with your eyes."</p><p>"What are you checking for?"</p><p>"Seeing how bad your concussion is."</p><p>"How do you know--?"</p><p>"You took two or three good shots to the face and then went on a speeder chase immediately after. And then you crashed said speeder. Into a balcony. Look up."</p><p>"Are you ever going to let me live that down?"</p><p>"After all the shit you gave me for crashing the Crest?"</p><p>"I think I was very fair in the amount of shit I gave you for crashing the Crest."</p><p>"Maybe," he agrees, lowering his hand, satisfied with his check of your vision. "But I'm not a secret star pilot of the Rebellion."</p><p>You roll your eyes at that, scoffing. "Does that mean you'll finally let me fly for real one of these days?"</p><p>He very gently turns your face to the side, inspecting the worst of the damage, fingers framing your face ever so delicately, a touch at odds with his flat tone. "What do you think?"</p><p>"I'll put you down for a maybe."</p><p>"Sure, you do that. On a scale from one to ten, how bad is your headache?"</p><p>You shrug. "Like a five, I guess?"</p><p>"So like a seven if you were being honest?"</p><p>You glare at him a little bit, but can't contradict him completely. "Split the difference and call it a six. How bad is the bruising?" You've been trying to get a glimpse of your reflection in his helmet, but the distortion won't give you a clear view.</p><p>"It's very…colorful. How much does it hurt if I press on your jaw like this?"</p><p>You flinch away from his touch before you can stop yourself, answering the question with your actions, clarifying with your words. "It hurts, but not in a way that says its broken."</p><p>He nods. "Are you dizzy at all?"</p><p>"No. Just tired."</p><p>"Probably ought to stay awake for a couple hours, just to be on the safe side. You should be back to normal in a day or two." He picks up one of the items he left next to you and gives it a quick shake. "Close your eyes for me?"</p><p>"What is--?"</p><p>"Bacta-spray. Come on, close your eyes."</p><p>"I don't need--"</p><p>"You're all scraped up. I saw you face-plant in the dirt at least once. You really want to leave it to chance that you didn't pick up something awful from the surface of that scum planet?"</p><p>You sigh, but close your eyes anyway. "This isn't fair. You know I'm concussed and you're arguing with me anyway."</p><p>"I wasn't under the impression that this was a game. Keep your mouth closed. I hear this stuff tastes awful…okay, open."</p><p>The spray stings, but soothes just as fast. You're secretly glad you are too tired to properly argue with him. "All good now, doc?"</p><p>"Nope. Give me your hand." He doesn't wait for you to respond, just takes it anyway, stretching out the palm in a way that makes your skin sting. All scraped up, probably worse than your face. You wonder how he noticed when you didn't. He gets ready to apply the bacta-spray again. "This'll hurt a bit more."</p><p>You nod, accepting your fate. "Where'd the spray come from? Didn't see it last time I was in the med cabinet."</p><p>"Picked some up a stop or two ago. Figured it'd come in handy. That feel okay?"</p><p>You flex your hand a little bit, still in pain but feeling it ebb away ever so slightly as you do. "Yeah, thanks."</p><p>"Not done yet. Don't move." He grabs a roll of gauze, getting ready to start wrapping your hand.</p><p>"It's really fine. I don't think I need--"</p><p>"It's this, or I cauterize it."</p><p>You shudder. "You wouldn't."</p><p>"No. That would be overkill. Especially when we have this." He raises the bandages in his hand. "So let me wrap it up until the skin heals."</p><p>"Fine," you say. "But only if you promise never to use the cauterizer on me."</p><p>"Only to save your life," he promises instead. You don't have it in you to argue with him as he attends to your hand with an annoyingly gentle touch. "So were you ever going to tell me about your flight history?"</p><p>Of course he would bring this up now, when your guard was down. "I've mentioned stuff before."</p><p>"You've alluded to it," he corrects. "Talked about your Y-Bomber. Didn't say anything about flying anything else. Taking down entire cruisers. Maker knows what else you got up to."</p><p>You shrug, trying not to feel too defensive. He's right, of course. There's so much you haven't filled him in on. "Some of that stuff…I don't know. I guess I'm just another cliché of an ex-rebel with PTSD. There's a lot that's hard to talk about."</p><p>He nods, lets a silence linger for a moment as he secures the bandage on your hand, fingers traveling up your arm to give you a reassuring squeeze somewhere it wouldn't hurt you, some sort of gesture that speaks of understanding, of care. When he does speak, it's tentative, vulnerable. "Maybe we can be the kind of people that tell each other things."</p><p>His words flip your stomach, make you nervous, but maybe not as much as they normally would. Afterall, you trust him. You've said as much to him. That must make it true. So why is it your instinct to snark at him instead, build up walls as if there weren't enough around you already? "Hey, I don't mean to point fingers or anything, but you only told me your name a few days ago."</p><p>He sighs, sounding off frustration, and you immediately feel bad. "I'm trying to be serious for a second here."</p><p>Yeah, you're fucking this up. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."</p><p>He looks down and shakes his head, as if trying to shake the last moment away, still holding your wrist as if to try to ground you both. "This doesn't come easily for me, okay? None of this. And I have a feeling you're as bad at this as I am. I'm trying not to step on your toes. But I also promised to keep you safe. I'm starting to get the feeling that it's going to be hard to keep that promise if you keep heading into danger without telling me what your deal is."</p><p>You feel even more guilty. As much as you don't want to admit it, he's right. Because he's honestly been wonderful, more than accepting of this weird crew member he brought on board, someone who was absolutely more than he bargained for, more than accommodating of all the trouble you've brough along. And the moment he tries to get real with you, all you give him is sarcastic quips in return. "You're right. I'm sorry, Din. I didn't mean…Let's…yeah, okay. Let's be the kind of people who talk about things to each other. I'd like that. It's just…gonna take me a bit."</p><p>He nods, and not for the first time, you wish you could see his face if only to get an idea of what he was thinking. "I get it. It'll take me time too. How about we start small. If there's info pertinent to the kid's safety, or to either one of ours, we tell each other before we're in the middle of a firefight."</p><p>"Deal," you say, and some of the pressure lifts off your chest. This step, this one very small step, feels doable.</p><p>"Good," he says, then gives you a final squeeze before releasing your arm. "Now, I was going to try to be sneaky about this, but in the interest of transparency, I'll tell you what I'm doing before I do it."</p><p>And now you're confused. "What?"</p><p>"You're getting a stim shot," is all he says. And before you can even form the words to protest, his hands are flying in front of you, picking up something from the table and injecting it into your upper arm.</p><p>"Ouch! Hey--what the--?"</p><p>"For your ribs," is all he says in explanation as he pulls the needle out. For all of his speed, he was still able to take care not to hurt you, and you realize by now you should expect nothing else from the expert gunslinger.</p><p>"How'd you know I got kicked in the side?"</p><p>"I didn't. But you haven't been walking right since the fight."</p><p>The pressure in your chest lessens even more, and you can't tell if it's from him or the stim-shot. Man, that stuff feels good, makes all your muscles relax.</p><p>"Sorry to surprise you like that, but you’re a terrible patient."</p><p>You are. It's true. But now that you have a hint of the good stuff flowing through your veins, you have trouble remembering why you'd ever resist it. Still, you say, "I'm never going to trust you to patch me up again."</p><p>"Don't get hurt again and I won't have to," he replies, as if it were that simple. Then he's cleaning up the med supplies he used, vanishing from in front of you, and you try not to miss his warmth too much.</p><p>"Yeah, whatever. I'm gonna go sleep this off."</p><p>He pauses in his reorganization of the medicine cabinet to look your way as you jump off the workbench. "You having memory problems?"</p><p>"No, why? Oh, Maker, you weren't serious about not letting me go to sleep, were you? Din, I'm fine."</p><p>He relaxes some, convinced, at least for now, that there isn't a more serious problem lurking. "Just for a few hours. I'll stay up with you. You could probably use something to eat anyway."</p><p>You hate it when he's right.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You offer to eat in the hull while he eats in the cockpit, or vice versa, but he shakes his head and directs you to sit a certain way on the crates, facing the workbench, annoyingly persistent that you follow his directions. He sits your food and your water in front of you as if you are too infirmed to get it yourself, and right as you're about to say something mean or snarky or ask him what the big deal is, he sits behind you, back pressing into yours, and takes his helmet off. The warmth of him shuts you up, draws you closer to him, strengthens connections you aren't sure why you were afraid of making in the first place, convinces you to get ready for another honest conversation.</p><p>"In case it hasn't come across yet, I'm really sorry for almost losing the kid," you say softy.</p><p>"Don't."</p><p>You wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't, so you ask, "Don't what? Apologize?"</p><p>"Don't play that stupid game you like to play with yourself. It's not your fault."</p><p>"I was holding the kid when he was taken. That makes me responsible."</p><p>"That makes you unlucky. I saw those guys on you, just for a second. You fought them off best you could. It's not your fault."</p><p>"I should have noticed them before--"</p><p>"I should have too. But I didn't. More than that, you're supposed to keep the kid safe, but I was supposed to keep both of you safe. Failed on both counts today."</p><p>"Hey, I'm fine. We both are."</p><p>"You almost took a bolt to the head. That's not the sort of thing you can walk away from." His voice is heavy, laced with anger, likely directed at himself. It makes your heart jump, thinking about the encounter from his point of view.</p><p>"Yeah, but I didn't. You got him before he got me."</p><p>"And then I just left you there." More anger. Restrained, but there.</p><p>"The kid came first, as he should. I'm not reading into it."</p><p>"Doesn't mean I get to be happy about it. Look, just don't go thinking this was all your fault, okay? That sort of thinking isn't sustainable."</p><p>You hate hate hate it when he's right. You tell him as much, and it makes him laugh a bit, the low and even bell you can't get enough of, helmet or no helmet. </p><p>"So what did you used to do back in the rebellion when you flew a bad mission? Can't have walked around thinking it was your fault all the time, right?"</p><p>You shake your head, even though he can't see it. "Mostly I would drink so I didn't have to think about it."</p><p>"Uh huh, sure. And then?"</p><p>"Well, before that I'd debrief. And then I'd spend a lot of time analyzing what exactly went wrong, whether it was something I did, or a squadron-member, or something out of our control entirely."</p><p>"Right. And if it was out of your control?"</p><p>"I guess I'd file it away in my head, watch out for it next time, try to learn. As much as we all hate to admit it, sometimes it all comes down to who has the better ship in a dogfight. But there's always a chance to compensate if you can outmaneuver an enemy, and maybe take back what you learned to a tech for the next tune up. Just takes practice. And a lot of luck."</p><p>"Great. Do that here, okay? That's what happened. This was out of our control. We'll just have to learn for next time."</p><p>Privately, you don't entirely agree with him, and you don't think he completely believes what he's saying either, but you understand where he's coming from, and you appreciate it. "Alright, yeah. I'll work on it."</p><p>The conversation lulls as you finish your food. It's slow going, hurting more than it should because of your jaw, but you're managing. From what you can hear, Din is already done, probably used to eating fast, but he stays with his back against yours anyway. You don't mind. You like hearing his voice like this.</p><p>"Speaking of things I said I would work on, I guess I owe you some explanations. What do you wanna know about my flight history?"</p><p>"More interested in your skillset, to be honest. You can fly, you can shoot, you can fix stuff, that all makes sense. Your hand-to-hand any good?"</p><p>You think back to your multiple and very embarrassing face plants earlier that day. "Clearly not. I mean, I guess I'm scrappy in a fist-fight if I'm not at a total disadvantage and my opponent isn't that much bigger than me, but it's not something I'm great at. I'm better if I have the element of surprise. I'm pretty good at being stealthy, which you saw when we took out the gang members, but they didn't really feel the need to train us pilots in physical combat much. I guess they figured if it got to that point, we were already lost causes."</p><p>"That’s grim. What about your knife work, how does that fit into all of this? Hey, what is it? I can feel you tense up behind me."</p><p>You are tensing, despite your best efforts. Didn't think you'd be straying into this territory so soon. "It's, uh. It's not a great explanation. I mean, it explains the knife stuff, but…did some stuff I shouldn't have. Before the war. After, too."</p><p>A tense silence, while you both wonder what to say next. He speaks first. "Look, I've been piecing some stuff together. I've got my theories. It can't have been that bad."</p><p>"Wanna bet?"</p><p>"Bet I've figured at least some of this out."</p><p>"Alright. Try me."</p><p>"You said you were on Bracca for a bit in a work camp. Said you escaped, but you either didn't have time or didn't think to do a final once over before you took off in the Delta-7. If the later is true, it sounds like a rookie mistake, something you wouldn't do now, with all the experience you have, so I'm betting you were young. Young enough, it sounds like, to be squarely in the orphan category once you went back to your home planet and found it trampled by the Empire. You said your brother was killed by Imps too, but not for a couple years, which means you two had to figure out how to take care of each other when your entire village was leveled. Probably didn't have anyone else around to help. Does this sound familiar?"</p><p>"Yeah," you say quietly. Achingly so.</p><p>"So you found work somewhere. Made some money. Only it sounds like you were still too young to get a decent job anywhere that traded in anything resembling legality. You could have landed in another workcamp, but you seem too stubborn for that if there were other options. And there were other options. I would know. I had to figure out this problem too."</p><p>"Thought you said the Mandalorians raised you?"</p><p>"In a manner of speaking. More specifically, I was brought up in the Fighting Corps. They protect you until you come of age, but after that, it's up to you to use the skills you learned and make it on your own. So I fell in with a few mercenaries doing things I shouldn't have. Am I getting warmer?"</p><p>"We preferred the term 'independent contractors.' But yeah."</p><p>"You said something about flying commercial. You weren't doing that when I first met you, though. You were running a cantina. So I'm guessing that was a 'before the war' thing. And I'm guessing you were everyone's transportation to and from the things they shouldn't have been doing. Or maybe you did some smuggling for these people. And that's when you picked up the odd skill or two, including the knives. Either way, traded your commercial license for a meal ticket for you and your brother. Which means you did what you had to survive. Which means no one can really blame you for anything you did."</p><p>"He flew and I fixed, actually. At least at first. He was older than me, felt protective and all. Tried to keep me as far away from the action as possible. Then he got caught on film, didn't have a clean record anymore, so they forged some papers and threw me in the cockpit. But yeah, all good guesses."</p><p>"And then you got busted and it was joining up or jail time?"</p><p>"Nah, we went willingly. Left the crew the day I was old enough to enlist. Had a score to settle with the stormtroopers, and besides, we knew a bad situation when we saw one. Wasn't hard to convince ourselves to leave first chance we had. Only stuck with them for about 7 months, when all's said and done. But yeah. You're pretty spot on. It's kind of unnerving."</p><p>"I track people for a living. Kind of comes with the territory. Still can't figure out how you ended up in that cantina though. You know, aside from the obvious. Trying to leave it all behind and all. But that transition still doesn't make sense to me. Star pilot to barkeep."</p><p>"I just want you to know that I'm going to roll my eyes every time you call me a star pilot."</p><p>"Uh-huh. Sure." He elbows you lightly, but it hurts more than he means it to.</p><p>"Ow! Hey! You asshole, my ribs are still healing."</p><p>"Shit, sorry. Forgot. Are you done eating?"</p><p>"Yeah, I'm done--hey!" There's movement behind you, a hand reaching around your body.</p><p>"Keep your eyes forward."</p><p>You do, but from your peripheral you can see body leaning around you to pick up the remnants of your meal. "Aren't you afraid you're going to startle me into accidentally looking at you one of these days?"</p><p>His footsteps lead away from you, putting away bowls and utensils to clean later. "You'll keep your cool. You're a star pilot after all."</p><p>Cheeky bastard. "Rolling. My. Eyes."</p><p>"Of course you are." There's more humor in his voice now, and you imagine him smiling slightly as he returns back behind you, sitting down, facing you this time. You dutifully keep your eyes straight ahead.</p><p>"I could have gotten that myself, you know."</p><p>"You're a terrible patient," he says, softly this time. "Let me take care of you." His fingers come around to trace the edges of your face, pulling back stray hairs, mindful of your bruises as he does so. You relax into his touch, every second reminding you more and more of the sleep he won't let you get quite yet. "How's your head?" he asks, quiet, tender.</p><p>"It's okay," you say. And then, "This feels nice."</p><p>"Good."</p><p>"So you want to hear about my transition to cantina owner, I take it?"</p><p>There's a pause before he answers, like he has to think about it. "Later," he decides. You don't mind, too lost in the way one hand resumes smoothing your hair while another arm winds around your middle, touch light and mindful after his previous blunder. "This okay?"</p><p>"Yeah. Good for you?"</p><p>He hums in affirmation, and the two of you sit like that for a while, a new kind of companionable silence. There's a part of you that wants to lie down in your bunk, but a bigger part of you that would do anything to live in this moment for as long as possible, and so that's what you do.</p><p>He's the one to break the silence, pulling himself closer to you on the crate until his head leans gently on yours, placing a kiss in your hair while you cover the arm he holds around you with your own. Peaceful. Gentle. Something to hold onto. And then he says, voice rumbling low from behind you, quiet but direct, "You know, I'm still furious with you for not going back to the Crest when I told you to."</p><p>A pause. You tense, sure you're about to be reprimanded, reliving your earlier fears that he'll boot you off the ship, even though it seems preposterous now, with the way he's wrapped around you. He senses your stress--of course he does--and leans down to plant a firm kiss to the place where your shoulder, neck, and back meet, far enough away that you still can't chance a view of him, but present enough to say <em>I'm here. It's okay. I've got you.</em></p><p>He straightens back up, resumes whatever thought your worry had interrupted, still so quiet. "You did good, though."</p><p>And, damn, it's not like you need his approval. You know you did good. You know you helped him out, did what you could to reverse your earlier error of letting the kid be ripped away from you. You know you did some good flying. You know that was a stellar crash landing, no matter what he has to say about it. But if what he has to say is, "You did good, though," you don't mind one bit.</p><p>So you say, "Yeah?" just to make sure you heard him right.</p><p>And he says, "Yeah. Would have had a lot more trouble getting the kid back without you." And you positively glow until he says, "Don't do that again, though."</p><p>And you say, "Do what?" and you're ready to glower at whatever dumb macho man thing he says about not wanting your help, about wanting to take on the whole stupid galaxy by himself, but then he says--</p><p>He says, "Don't scare me like that. Not again."</p><p>And you let your guard down enough to hear the fear in his voice as he rests his forehead, bare and vulnerable on your shoulder, as he wraps his other arm around you, firm and gentle. You let your guard down enough to realize that all your near-death experiences were racking up more milage on him than they were on you.</p><p>"Hey. I'm fine you know," you whisper. </p><p>But he keeps talking like he hasn't even heard you. "I don't know what we're doing right now. What we are. And we should probably figure that out later, but, Maker, if nothing else…you're my best fucking friend. You know that, right? So you can't…you can't do that. Can’t go getting yourself shot right in front of me when I can't do anything to help you out."</p><p>"You did, though. You did. You got him."</p><p>"I don't think you understand how close it was."</p><p>In your heart, you do. You remember your own panic. But it wouldn't do him any good to tell him that. "Lessons for next time, right?"</p><p>He takes a deep breath, as if to steady himself. "We got lucky. They didn't know about the bounty on you. Pretty sure that's the only reason you're still here with us. They would have gotten you too."</p><p>And that thought, you hadn't even had time to consider. It makes you press into the warmth behind you just a little bit more, grasp at his arms just a little bit tighter. "I'm okay," you say, but this time you're trying to convince yourself too.</p><p>As if he's noticed the shift of your body, the tremor of your voice, as if he's noticed the realization is only just dawning on you--because it's him, he notices everything--he changes course, squeezes one of the shoulders he holds in his hand lightly. "Yeah, you're okay. You're tough. Star pilot and all."</p><p>And this time it's you elbowing him from behind.</p><p>"Favored daughter of the rebellion," he says, landing a kiss where his forehead rested a moment ago, ready to flinch this time when you send another elbow at him.</p><p>"Queen of all the X-Wings," he says, and then a soft bite to your earlobe that makes you yelp for multiple reasons. </p><p>"Maker, you did not just say X-Wing, did you? Y-Wing. <em>Y-Wing!</em> X-Wings are for posers. Weren't you listening?"</p><p>"It was hard to hear you out there over the wind."</p><p>"You don't know the difference, do you?"</p><p>"I'm sure you're going to mansplain it to me." You send another elbow at him. "Hey, what was that one for?"</p><p>"Incorrect use of the term 'mansplain.' Sheesh, Djarin, thought you were a feminist."</p><p>"You almost jumped from one speeder onto another in the middle of highway traffic at a height that definitely would have killed you from the fall. I am not taking critiques from you today."</p><p>You start laughing now, because, sure, he has a point, but that ridiculous leap you almost took feels like a million years ago. "Fuck, I did, didn't I? Was wondering when you were going to yell at me for that."</p><p>"Just wait until I've slept today off," he warns through the smile in his voice. "You'll get it then."</p><p>"Promises, promises," you taunt.</p><p>It earns you a flick on your ear. "Alright, enough out of you. Wanna get some sleep?"</p><p>"You have no idea." You want to move to get up, but he keeps you in place, and you dare not chance an accidental look behind you anyway.</p><p>"Listen, I don't want to put the helmet back on. Not right now. It's too heavy right now. You trust me to get you to bed without your sight?"</p><p>"You're gonna have a hell of a time boosting me up to the top bunk, but sure."</p><p>"Sleep in mine."</p><p>"In yours?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"What about you?"</p><p>"I'll be there too. That okay?"</p><p>"Will we fit?"</p><p>"We'll make it work."</p><p>"Then yeah, that sounds good."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He ties the blindfold around you, ever gentle, ever careful, for his sake and yours, then leads you across the ship. You have trouble removing all of your layers without hurting yourself, so he helps you with a touch that is more clinical than curious. You're left in your tank top and the pair of shorts you ask him to grab for you, and then he helps you into his bunk, and wow, this is so rude, it is so much easier to get into his bunk than yours, he is so much taller than you, why in the galaxy did you not decide to steal this bunk for yourself ages ago. He laughs at your grumbling and then works on removing his own layers, armor clinking as he does. He squeezes in next to you, tangles with your limbs, makes sure you're okay. It's tight, but cozy, so you tell him, yeah, you're more than okay. And then you tell him it's his turn.</p><p>"My turn for what?"</p><p>"I don't know, you put something on the list of things we needed to talk about later. I forget what it is. Wait--it's the--with the stormtroopers--you have a vambrace that shoots tiny missiles out of it. Something to do with birds. What's the deal with that?" You swallow a yawn as you ask, the sleepiness coming in waves.</p><p>"Oh, yeah. I have a vambrace that shoots tiny missiles out of it. Whistling Birds." Annoyingly succinct. You'll have to work to get a story out of him, it seems.</p><p>"Oh. That's neat. Where'd you get 'em?"</p><p>"That's a longer story."</p><p>"Tell me?"</p><p>"Thought you were tired."</p><p>"I am. Tell me anyway."</p><p>It doesn't take much to wear him down. He calls you stubborn but he tells you anyway, talks about the Armorer, the Armory, the way that beskar is forged. You're in and out of sleep as he tells you. You try not to let on, but you're sure he figures it out anyway, especially when he's turning you around in his arms, cutting the interior lights, tugging the blindfold off of you. During one of your lucid moments, as he finishes talking, you ask him if that means you can't get one of those whistle thingys for yourself. He says definitely not, you walking disaster. You try to elbow him, but he sees it coming, so you give his shin a light kick, which he does not. He flicks your ear and tells you to go to sleep, then settles in next to you. The way he holds you now, he doesn't have to tell you twice.</p><p>But then, "Hey, wait, I wanted to tell you something."</p><p>And he whispers, "What?"</p><p>"I can't remember."</p><p>"Tell me in the morning."</p><p>"Okay…wait, I remember now."</p><p>"Hmm?"</p><p>"You're my best friend too."</p><p>He's still for a moment and it makes you panic until he holds you just a little tighter in the best way possible. Another moment passes, and he says, "You fucking sap."</p><p>"You're one to talk."</p><p>"No one would believe you. Now shush. Go to sleep."</p><p>"Just as soon as you get your gross toenails out of my leg."</p><p>"What are you talking about? They aren't--what do you mean gross?"</p><p>"You've got, like, claws down there or something."</p><p>"My feet aren't even touching you."</p><p>"Oh. Then what the fuck is on my leg?"</p><p>He shifts behind you, sits up, investigates. Something babbles. "It's the kid." </p><p>"How the hell did he get out of his crib?"</p><p>"I don't know. He's a little weirdo."</p><p>"Cute one, though."</p><p>"Uh-huh. C'mere, bud. Up you go." And then he's picking the little guy up and settling him right between you both as you shift over in the tight space, head on Din's shoulder, arm around him as he winds an arm around you. And like that, the three of you, orphans of war, drift off into sleep, hurtling through hyperspace.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Whew! Okay. Finally done with that whole ordeal.</p><p>Thanks for reading ya'll. Your comments and kudos make me smile so dang much :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. precious little else</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"What are the odds we plan a heist from an old Imperial base on the same day the New Republic raids it?"</p><p>"Calculate it later. For right now, listen carefully. I'm about to tell you to do something that I really don't want to."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Content Warnings for this chapter include more discussions of reader's PTSD and time in the war, mentions of drugs and addictions (but, like, off screen if that makes sense), a minor character is a jackass about pronouns (but is immediately corrected), angst angst angst, and a certain tin can having feelings and not knowing what to do with them. Sheesh, Din, pull yourself together.</p><p>You might also notice a few Easter Eggs from the EA Squadrons video game, including Keo, who is precious and must be protected at all costs.</p><p>And, uh, long story short, Covid sucks. Caught it back in December, symptoms weren't going away, so the good doc put me on a lot of steroids. So if this chapter feels kind of really scattered (and it is) that's because I wrote the first third high out of my mind, the second third while I was going through withdrawal, and the last third while I was realizing that I probably need more terrible drugs and a chest x-ray because my symptoms are still hanging around. So if this chapter seems like it was written by three different people, that's because it pretty much was. But alas, I am tired of editing this. So here you go.</p><p>By the way, despite portraying myself as your grumpy and crotchety old internet aunt, I am solidly in the age range where all the dumb people begging for restrictions to be lifted say I would not be impacted by this virus. All of which is to say they are wrong, herd immunity is a terrible idea, and please take your health precautions seriously because I am here to tell you that this thing SUCKS and I have been dealing with it for like 6 or 7 weeks now. But anyway *pats you on the head and bundles you up in a warm fluffy coat* okay kiddos take care of yourselves and enjoy the chapter.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Turn. Turn. Turn. <em>Turn.</em> You're gonna spin out on this next bend if you don't pull back on the throttle. Pull back….pull back! OH SHIT! Kid, did you see that?"</p><p>The tiny little lima bean in your lap looks up at you with excitement and confusion. He has no idea what is going on, but he knows that <em>something</em> is going on, and he very clearly wants to be a part of it. He looks back at the holopad you're both watching--well, maybe you more than him--just in time to see the footage cut to a replay of the very explosion that had gotten you so excited in the first place. Pod racing at its finest.</p><p>Luckily, the pilot makes it out okay, which means you don’t have to feel bad about saying "I told you so," to the pixels projected on the screen. The same cannot be said for the pod she was racing. If nothing else, the wreckage will make some Jawas very happy.</p><p>"See, if you pull a turn like that at those speeds without the proper machine, you're bound to lose control of the vehicle." You pick the kid up by the middle and lift him around you, making quick, jerky movements that mimic the kind of turns most pod racers would not be able to pull off. Doesn't matter. Kid laughs anyway. "And if you lose control in a narrow pass like that--" here, you bring him close to your chest and shake your body a bit, making crashing sounds as you do. "And then--you're toast!" You look down at him to see if the lesson has sunk in, but it seems he has not learned from your dramatic portrayal of a cautionary tale. It's okay. He'll understand when he's older. </p><p>At the very least, this display is an excellent way to keep the kid entertained and out of the dirt, where he had hunted bugs all morning, eating approximately 16 creepy crawlers before you got completely grossed out and lured him back with a box of cookies. Luckily it didn't take much to distract him. Ever since his trauma on Jutrand, he was hesitant to wander too far from you and Din. Smart kid.</p><p>Despite its bugginess, you quite like Batuu, and you especially enjoy all of the ways in which it is not Jutrand or Kuat or any of those other rust dumps. Lots of trees, lots of sky, lots of space that isn't filled with buildings and people, and, oh yeah, a not-so-decommissioned Imperial outpost located an hour's walk or so southwest of your position, where your partner-guardian-bunkmate was, right this moment, engaging in some sort of espionage to take possession of some sort of data-stick that would have some sort of information about the bounty on your head. To be honest, once he said you weren't allowed to go with him, you stopped paying attention.</p><p>And <em>of course</em> you're disappointed to be missing out on all the fun stealth stuff, but you also don't mind having the opportunity to kick back outside in the sun with a hacked holopad, watching some good racing with your favorite little gremlin. You have had worse days.</p><p>It made sense. This close to the Imperials, even a base as supposedly desolate as this one, it wasn't wise to leave the kid all on his own, even if you had managed to convince Din that you could be valuable backup on a mission like this, what with all the sneaking around you had already admitted to doing as a kid. </p><p>But, again, it can't be mentioned enough: Pod racing.</p><p>As baby sitting gigs go, this one was pretty easy. Or, of course, that's what you think. That's what you always think right before everything goes to shit.</p><p>Most of the racers in this leg of the qualifying rounds had either fallen way behind or just plain got blown up, which left seven or eight competing to cross the finish line first, though you really only had your eye on three. It was going to be close, and the race had you on the edge of your seat, or rather, the edge of this patch of grass that you were sitting on while you leaned on the hull of the Crest. That's why you were really confused when you heard it--the sound of a handful of engines rumbling in the distance, approaching closer. </p><p>You look down at the kid to see how you should react to this development, but he's looking at you for the same reason, and so that doesn't really help your situation. "Does he have one of those fancy sound immersion modifications on this thing or something?" The little bug just blinks at you, or well, that was all he did until he looked past you, up in the sky. That's when he blinked with a little more recognition as the sound became overwhelming, enveloping. The kid points at something flying up and above you, and, wow, yup, those are TIE fighters. This isn't good.</p><p>A group of five of them, flying low as if they were looking for something, but they had flown right past you, so it probably wasn't you, couldn't be you, because TIE pilots were dumb but they weren't "fly right past whatever they're looking for" dumb, right? Even if you were hidden among a reasonably dense growth of trees?</p><p>Din had made sure your comlink was on you before he left, but he also said only to contact him if it was absolutely necessary, since he didn't want to risk giving away his position while he was doing sneaky things. </p><p>"Hey, Booger. Do you think this counts as an emergency?" </p><p>The kid sticks his tongue out, and, yes, you agree.</p><p>"Mando? Come in."</p><p>Silence. You guess he was busy. Great.</p><p>You grab the kid and the holopad and dart up the ramp of the Crest, only to come back out with a pair of binocs, kid trailing behind you. You had told him to stay inside, but he didn't listen. You guess your stubborn curiosity was rubbing off on him. Din certainly wouldn't be happy about that.</p><p>You scoop him up and climb onto the roof of the Crest for a better look at what was happening above the tree lines.</p><p>"Mando? Seriously, are you there?" The silence was starting to worry you, but luckily, when you hail him this time, he answers.</p><p>"Yeah, I'm here. Got the data-stick. On my way back now. What is it?"</p><p>"Do you hear that?"</p><p>A pause. "Hear what?"</p><p>"Give it another sec."</p><p>Another pause. "Can you just tell me--?...Oh, what, the TIE fighters?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"This base is little more active than I thought it would be. They're probably just doing some routine flying patterns. Training or something."</p><p>"Those aren't routine patterns. Trust me, I would know. They're looking for something. It's not us--they flew right past the ship and didn't even blink, but I--"</p><p>Just then, you hear a very distinctive <em>pew pew</em>, the kind you've been hearing in your sleep for years.</p><p>"Fuck. Those are X-Wings."</p><p>"No way. There hasn't been a New Republic presence on Batuu for years. It isn't an important enough planet. Hasn't been since the hyperspace routes were standardized."</p><p>"I'd know that sound anywhere. I don't have eyes on them yet but--oh shit, now I do. TIE squadron just scattered. I see one--no, two X-Wings north of your position, on approach. Fuck, they're outnumbered."</p><p>"How are you seeing this?"</p><p>"I climbed up on the engine. Snagged your Binocs. Woah, look at that turn. This is way better than the racing I was watching before."</p><p>"Get down from there. Don't make yourself any more visible than you have to be."</p><p>You ignore him entirely. "Wait a second…are those…? Yup, those are the old models. T-65Bs. Thought they retired them. What are they doing starting a fight like this?"</p><p>"Are you listening to me?"</p><p>"Yeah, but it's fine. It's you that I'm worried about. They must be fighting right over your head--holy fuck, kid, did you see that? Pulled back on the throttle just in time. That's the way to do it." </p><p>"I'm serious. Get inside the ship and lay low. I'm on my way--dank farrik, are you kidding--?"</p><p>The sound of an explosion on his end of the com jolts you from your viewing. You put the binocs down, clutch the comlink a little tighter in your grip. "What happened? Status report."</p><p>There's a long silence, a long moment of an unknown you don't want to think about. Your heart beats wildly in your chest as you look down at the kid. It takes you back to that night in your cantina, the first time you realized there was a chance he wasn't coming back from whatever fight he got himself into.</p><p>"Mando. Come in. Come on, give me an update."</p><p>The starship skirmish goes on above your head, but you've disengaged from it entirely. You're laser-focused on the possibilities unfolding before you. Just as you start laying out a plan to go after him, the comlink crackles.</p><p>"Alright, that's it. We need to get out of here."</p><p>Relief spreads through your heart, but the tension in your shoulders doesn't completely unwind. It won't until he's safe, back on the ship with you "Fuck. You scared me. What happened?"</p><p>"I'm not sure. Had a couple Imps on my tail. Almost ran into some New Republic lackeys. Someone has a speeder bike, but I don't know who. I think we just stumbled into something we shouldn't have."</p><p>"What are the odds we plan a heist from an old Imperial base on the same day the New Republic raids it?"</p><p>"Calculate it later. For right now, listen carefully. I'm about to tell you to do something that I really don't want to."</p><p>You do listen carefully, or at least, you try to. The vast majority of your attention wanders as soon as he tells you that he needs you to come pick him up.</p><p>Which means--</p><p>It means you get to--</p><p>No. Fucking. Way.</p><p>"Hey! Did you hear me?"</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, you said to fly low. I heard you." You're in the ship and up the ladder to the cockpit in record time. You buckle the kid into your normal seat, and then you take the coveted position of pilot. Pilot of the Razor Crest. It's about damn time.</p><p>"Are you going to actually listen to me?"</p><p>"Just focus on staying out of the line of fire. I'll handle the flying."</p><p>"Don't crash my ship."</p><p>"Sheesh, you really are nervous about this, aren't you?"</p><p>"And don't worry about finding a spot to land. Just lower the ramp when you get close, I'll jetpack up. But you need to stay--"</p><p>"Stay low, I got it, I got it." </p><p>Engine on. Thrusters online. Radar booting up. Canons at the ready. Altitude rising. Landing gear retracting. Rise and tilt into the turn. </p><p>It flies a lot differently than your Y-Bomber. Heavy. Clunky. A much bigger machine. But still. It's like you don't even have to think.</p><p>You spare a glance behind you to check in with the kid. "Alright there, Button?"</p><p>He nods enthusiastically.</p><p>"Good. We're gonna go get your Dad."</p><p>You engage the accelerator. And then, <em>zoom.</em></p><p>"Okay Mando, we're on the way. You still at the same coordinates?"</p><p>"Close enough. Keep an eye on the radar. If one of the TIEs notices you--"</p><p>"Then I'll blast it to pieces. Did you forget who you were talking to?"</p><p>"Just keep your head clear."</p><p>"You're no fun."</p><p>"Let's see how much fun you are next time you get caught in the crossfires of a Galactic War remnant."</p><p>"Are they shooting at you now?"</p><p>"No--wait. Fuck, hang on."</p><p>"I'll take that as a yes."</p><p>"Just fly."</p><p>"I'm nearing your position. Do you see me yet?"</p><p>No answer, at least immediately, but you're tired of waiting. You slow down and tilt the Crest a bit, giving you a better view of the ground beneath you. It's hard to see with all the trees, but you think you might make out a shiny glint of moving metal. "Is that you?" You think you also see the faint streaks of light, indicative of a shootout.</p><p>"Why are you flying so crooked?"</p><p>"Was looking for you. Why are you so judgmental?"</p><p>"I'm not being judgmental. I'm just--damnit! One sec."</p><p>"If you can see me that means you can reach me. Get up here, will you? Let's get out of here." You level off and flick a switch to lower the ramp, reducing your speed to give him an easier landing. "Are you on your way?"</p><p>"Little busy here." Blasters in the background.</p><p>"If you have time to press a button on your comlink and snark at me, you have time to press a button on your bracer and get your beskar-butt up here."</p><p>"What was that about my beskar-butt?"</p><p>"You heard me."</p><p>Whatever reply he gives you is lost to the beep on the control panel in front of you indicating someone is hailing the ship. Uh oh. This should be interesting.</p><p>You open the channel. "Razor Crest, the is New Republic ship N1-11. Clear the area or we will be forced to treat you as a threat."</p><p>And then, what do you know, another ship hails you. When you flip to that channel, a voice says, "Razor Crest, you are intruding on Imperial airspace. Identify yourself and state your affiliation."</p><p>Not. Good.</p><p>"Mando, you are definitely not going to like what happens if you don't up here ASAP."</p><p>"Just boarded. Go!"</p><p>Release tension. Ramp up. Engage accelerator. Increase altitude. Fly.</p><p>"Imps and New Republic are both hailing me," you call down to him, abandoning the comlink now that he's on board. "What do you want me to do?"</p><p>"Out of the seat," comes his voice, rushing up the ladder. "Let me handle this."</p><p>"Maker, are you serious? You have a galaxy-renowned pilot at the control of your ship for five minutes and you're already--oh shit."</p><p>Ion canons shooting a little too close to you. Radar shows a ship on your tail. You jerk the ship to the side, pitching a little bit to stay clear of the fire. More than you meant to. Behind you, Din stumbles to the side, nearly falling over until he catches himself on the wall.</p><p>"Sorry! Still getting the hang of the joystick."</p><p>"What did you do?" Din says, panic and accusation coloring his voice, probably asking about the ship on your tail, as if this whole mess was somehow your fault.</p><p>"Nothing! I didn't do anything."</p><p>The open channel crackles: "Razor Crest, leave Imperial airspace or be annihilated." </p><p>Sheesh. Overkill much? You very quickly switch the comm channel, if only to rid yourself of the gross Imperial voice. </p><p>Which puts you on the channel the New Republic is calling you on. "Razor Crest, this is a New Republic operation. State your business here."</p><p>"Do NOT state your business here," Din warns you. "Avoid the conflict. Get out of here. Now." He's trying to fight his way to the controls, but the ship shooting behind you is making that a bit of a problem, what with all the weaving you have to do to avoid it.</p><p>And then the ship behind you actually lands a hit on your hull. Superficial. Non-damaging. But if nothing else, it pisses you off.</p><p>And like he can read your mind, Din says, "Don't."</p><p>But you really just can't let that kind of disrespect stand. Not after all the blood, sweat, and tears that went into making sure this thing could fly.</p><p>"I'll be real quick," you promise, and then you've got one hand on the throttle, one hand on directional control, shifting away from defense and into offensive ariel maneuvers. "Where are the guns on this thing?"</p><p>"Fuck." Din, for his part, is too busy trying to regain his footing to be properly appalled at all of the things you are about to do to his ship. "If I don't tell you, will you change your mind about this whole thing?"</p><p>You're already ahead of him, experimentally toggling the most likely button, pleased at the pew pew it makes. "Found them! Will you sit down already? You're setting a terrible example for the kid."</p><p>"<em>I'm</em> setting a terrible example? Hey, watch it! TIE on your right."</p><p>"No backseat piloting."</p><p>"It's called co-piloting."</p><p>"Yeah, and you've already made it clear that co-pilots don't exist on this ship. Are you strapped in yet?"</p><p>There's a click of a belt behind you, where the kid is. You tilt your head at the noise. In your peripheral view, you can just make out his shiny suit with the kid on his lap, holding tight. Which means it's totally safe to do a couple vertical loops right now in order to better position yourself behind your assailant. </p><p>"This thing has a surprisingly good turning radius," you say, mostly to yourself. </p><p>"She's gonna get us killed," Din says, mostly to the kid.</p><p>"Razor Crest, we're waiting," N1-11 says, mostly to you.</p><p>Your hand goes to the comm button to at least let the New Republic know you're trying to help them out here, but there's a sharp "Do not!" from behind you that stops your movement. </p><p>You focus on easing into a lateral drift to maintain your position behind the TIEs instead, patiently count to three, then very nicely ask Din why he wanted to keep you from contacting the only allies around in this fight. Or maybe not so nicely, but you’re not sorry. Normally when you do this, you don't have an audience, especially once yelling at you to do the wrong thing. No contact means no explanation to the X-Wings, which means there's a good chance that any shots you fire, regardless of who you fire at, will be taken as an act of aggression by all parties involved. You don't need additional fighters on your tail, and you could only remain in pursuit for so long without backing up your position with your guns.</p><p>"I'm not on good terms with the New Republic right now," is the only explanation he gives you. "Just leave the atmosphere. If we're followed we can deal with them later, away from the X-Wings."</p><p>The ship shakes. Another hit. Your radar is lighting up with a third TIE fighter showing up behind you. An escape plan that doesn't involve firing on the enemy no longer seems feasible.</p><p>"I'll take care of the New Republic," you promise. "Might still have some pull. No time to argue. It's this or we're vaporized." He tries to protest, but your decision is final. You press the comm button and address the pilot that's been hailing you. "N1-11, this is Razor Crest. This is a civilian ship. We have no business in this fight but we're willing to assist against the Empire. Permission to fire on the TIEs."</p><p>"Looks like you don't have much of a choice, Razor Crest. You are clear to engage."</p><p>"Copy that."</p><p>If nothing else, the Crest has a lot of power behind it's canons. It's one of the few systems on the ship you haven't really touched, but you're thankful they're working at a reasonable efficiency. You remind yourself to look under the hood at them later, just to make sure. In the meantime, you have other things to worry about.</p><p>The first TIE has spent a second too long getting used to your unengaged follow. A few well-placed shots and it goes down. The second fighter peels off as you shoot down the first, a problem for later. The real problem is the third, behind you. You can't shake it. The Crest takes a few more hits.</p><p>Din mumbles something behind you.</p><p>"Are you saying anything helpful right now?"</p><p>"I'm cursing. In Mandoa. So no."</p><p>Figures.</p><p>"Hang on. Gonna pull some defensive maneuvers. It's gonna get a little jerky."</p><p>A sharp turn and a dip in the throttle has you drifting again, this time diagonally up, rolling just a bit to orient yourself towards the TIE that was once behind you, now in front, dangerously close. Your gut tells you it's going to try to keep itself behind you, so you lean into the turn once more, complete a 360 rotation, and increase the throttle. The TIE continues past you, and you have a split second in your preferred position, tailing it. You fire a few shots, but nothing sticks, and then it's pulling some fancy moves itself, escaping the narrow range you have to shoot it down.</p><p>"Shit, that one's an Interceptor."</p><p>"What does that mean?"</p><p>"Nothing good, with how slow this thing is."</p><p>"Then leave the fight." He's not begging. He's a Mandalorian. Mandalorains don't beg. But you do detect a note of desperation. He's certainly not enjoying himself.</p><p>Not your problem right now. "Can't. It'll blow us up before we leave atmo. I've got this."</p><p>You try another diagonal drift again, but this time the Interceptor is ready for that and does a good job of staying behind you. You try a lateral drift, but same deal. The Crest is just too big, too slow, not enough power. And that left engine is definitely underperforming. </p><p>Drastic problems require drastic solutions. If one of those solutions happens to be a prayer and a test of gravity, so be it.</p><p>"Hang on. It's gonna get rough. No talking while I do this."</p><p>More mumbles, which you take to mean more curses. You'll have to thank him for his vote of confidence later.</p><p>You climb as high as you can for as long as you dare. Then, you drift again, this time angling down, pulling back on the throttle completely as you turn to face the Interceptor, but this time pausing before firing up the engines again. The Interceptor has overshot its speed and has to take a wide turn before diving to chase you as you plummet to terminal velocity. You get that sinking feeling in your stomach, a worrisome rebellion against the risk you're taking, but you ignore it, betting instead that you'll have enough time to do what you need to do. For a moment you're locked in a scary battle governed by the sheer luck of whoever regains enough stability to fire first. You know you can't take too many direct hits from the Interceptor and still hope to get off this planet with your lives. With how foreign this ship feels at your hands, you know you'll take more time to aim and shoot. You're counting on the bigger lead.</p><p>Target locks. You fire a half dozen shots. A couple hit, but it's not enough. In the next second, the Interceptor is returning fire, and you know that of the two of you bound to this freefall charade you're pulling, you're the one who's going to have to blink first. You land one more hit, and then you blink. Throttle all the way up, fall decelerating, neutralizing, then reversing. You start to climb again. The Interceptor, unprepared for your sudden change of course, jerks to the side and flies past you as you level off and tilt to try to follow its path with your eyes. Damn. If you had hung in there a few more seconds, you would have had a good chance of sending the Interceptor into the dirt.</p><p>Of course, you also could have gotten yourself blown up into the next sector, so you guess compromises have to be made.</p><p>With the most terribly immediate crisis averted, a question pops into your head. It's not a useful question. You'd much rather forget about it. But it's just going to bug you if you don't ask it now, so that's what you do. He could probably use the distraction anyway. "Mandoa is like, your ancestral language, right?"</p><p>"Thought you told me not to talk."</p><p>"I was just wondering. That's where all those names you call me come from, right?</p><p>"What names?"</p><p>"You know, like cyrae. And mesh--uh--that mesh'la name you called me that last time in your bunk when I was on top--"</p><p>"Woah, hey, kid present," he interrupts hastily. "Is this really what you're thinking about right now?"</p><p>"Sorry. I'm multitasking."</p><p>Besides. It's not like you don't have a spare moment. The Interceptor hesitates in its next move, pulling up from its rapid descent but otherwise clueless in its next direction. Makes the stupid mistake of not pulling back on the throttle to regroup when it should have, especially when a ship that fast is trying to go up against a ship as slow as yours. Rooky mistake, making its own advantage a weakness, an error you are not going to hesitate to exploit.</p><p>You pull closer to where the Interceptor is speeding off to, achieving a reasonable following distance that puts it right into your line of fire. Whoever is piloting that ship is one or two steps behind you, only now realizing that it should have slowed down. Bad news for them, good news for you. They waste the seconds they had to max out their speed and escape your range. Oh well. A couple more shots, and you're peeling off their track, leaving a mess of fire and scrap metal in your proverbial dust.</p><p>"How are you doing back there?"</p><p>"You're insane," Din says flatly, voice surprisingly even considering the panic you must be putting him through.</p><p>"I was talking to the kid."</p><p>You're barely aware of the sound of his laughter. What a great kid. You can't wait to watch another round of pod racing with him when this is all over.</p><p>"He's fine. I think he might even be enjoying this."</p><p>A quick scan of your radar says there's no one immediately on your ass. You do a slow, lazy, wide turn to get a look at the airspace and watch as the remaining TIE does its best to shake the two X-Wings closing in. Unfortunately for the TIE, it's flying right into your kill box. The target locks. You shoot. Between the three ships closing in on it, poor TIE never had a chance. You fly above the explosion while the two X-Wings bank to the side. It's all very picturesque.</p><p>The ship's comm crackles again, and you are so thrilled when it's not issuing Imperial death threats. "That was some damn good flying, Razor Crest."</p><p>"Not bad yourself, N1-11."</p><p>Another voice crackles in. "Razor Crest, this is BT-34. Thanks for the assist. Not sure how you managed in a ship like that, but we appreciate it."</p><p>"My pleasure. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some business off-world to attend to. Best of luck rounding up the rest of the Imps. Force be with you two." You pull up sharply and push on the accelerator, not enough to make a terribly suspicious exit, but enough to make a point. You almost get away with it, too, but the left engine still isn't doing what you need it to.</p><p>"This thing should be pulling way more Gs than it is," you say over your shoulder.</p><p>You get a grumpy grunt in return.</p><p>"Sheesh, what's your problem."</p><p>"Take a look at the radar."</p><p>Two signatures, one on either side of you. X-Wings. You don't see what the big deal is. They're probably just escorting you off.</p><p>You open your comm channel again. "Hey guys, appreciate the warm goodbye, but I'm sure you have more important things to attend to. We’ll be fine from here."</p><p>"We actually have a few questions regarding your presence so close to an Imperial base. We're sweeping for Imperial sympathizers and possible escapees. Would you mind sending us a ping?"</p><p>You say, "Sure thing," right as Din whispers, "No!" but you decide that he doesn't really get a vote right now, what with you being the one to actually pilot you all out of that mess, and in record time you might add. You send the ping, along with a, "Won't find any positive sentiments towards the Imps here, but I'm happy to do what I can to make your jobs easier." Ever the suck up.</p><p>"Oh my Maker," you hear whispered behind you. You don't acknowledge him, just roll your eyes. He's being incredibly overdramatic today.</p><p>But then there's a worrying length of silence on their end, and you think you might be in deeper shit than Din let on with his "not on great terms" explanation.</p><p>So you improvise. "You know, it's been a long while since I've taken out a TIE fighter. I flew with the Rebellion back in the day. Mostly in a Y-Wing, but I always did respect the X-Wing. That's a perfect machine you both got there."</p><p>"Is that so?" N1-11 sounds unimpressed, which is not great news.</p><p>"Sure did," you continue anyway. "Had a few good times with a U-Wing too. Including a run in the Enrivi system. Earned a commendation for that one. Fun stuff. Either of you serve in the Rebellion? There might be a chance we have some friends in common. A few members of my squadron haven't retired from service yet, you know."</p><p>And then the "X" in "X-Wing" fully reveals itself as the pair brings their weapons back online.</p><p>Well <em>fuck.</em></p><p>"Razor Crest, your ship has been implicated in a break out of a New Republic prison. We're going to have to escort you back to base and ask you a few questions."</p><p>As soon as "prison break" registers in your mind, you very quickly turn around in your seat and give Din your meanest looking death glare. You mouth the words, "what the fuck?" at him, but he just gives you a defensive "why did you think I wanted out of this mess in the first place?" shrug.</p><p>Fucking hell, this man.</p><p>You turn back to the control panel and put on your best customer service voice, as if you were back in your bar, dealing with a couple of rowdy customers. "N1-11, I can assure you, this is news to me. Absolutely the first time I'm hearing about this."</p><p>"We're still going to have to bring you in."</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, of course. I totally get that. But listen, I only found this ship a few months ago. You should have seen the state it was in when I found it crash landed on this dusty little planet. Middle of nowhere, I'm telling you. The main fuel stop doesn't even have a cantina anymore, if you can believe that."</p><p>Behind you, he whispers sharply, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"</p><p>"Buying time," you whisper back quickly. Then you stick your fist up at him, field code for "shut the fuck up and let me handle this."</p><p>There's a meteor field surrounding the planet. You remember seeing it on your way in, daydreaming about flying through it yourself. It's not terribly dense, but maybe it will be enough, if you can get there. You continue your efforts to prolong this conversation, fingers crossed that your plan will work. "Whoever normally flies this ship, I can assure you, didn't know how to take care of it properly before I came aboard and started flying it for myself. If I didn't know any better, I would say that all evidence points to a good chance that he's still on that dusty rock I found it on. I can give you the coordinates, if you like."</p><p>"Our colleagues down on the ground say they may have seen one of your passengers partaking in the carnage. We can settle all of this back at the base. If what you're saying is true, we'll need to take a look at the flight manifest to confirm and do a sweep of your machine. Make sure you aren't harboring any stowaways. Reduce speed and lower your altitude. Now."</p><p>"Huh. Yeah. Funny thing about that, I totally forgot it was illegal to wipe the data of a crashed ship before registering it with the New Republic. I was just on my way to do that now, in fact. Get her registered, I mean." You're completely bullshitting right now, but it doesn't matter. Just a little longer. "Silly me. I guess you've got to fine me for that or something. I can just wire that to you now, if you want. Make your jobs a little easier."</p><p>"Ma'am, are you trying to bribe an officer of the New Republic?"</p><p>Officer of the New Republic. Ugh. He sounds almost as self-important as those dopey stormtroopers. Goodness gracious, what happened to your rough and tumble fellow rebels?</p><p>Whatever. Time to play your last card. "Look, I'm gonna level with you both. I know this doesn't look good, but I can assure you, we hold no ties with the Imperials, and no sympathy to their ways. If you don't mind, we've got an appointment to keep. You two wouldn't happen to have it in yourselves to do a favor for a veteran of the Vanguard Squadron, would you? Call it a courtesy between industry professionals?"</p><p>A pause, tense, but more hopeful this time. Maybe, if they hadn't heard about your rather disgraceful exit from the rebellion--and they shouldn't, since you had been assured that would remain classified--you could get out of this mess with nothing but a good war story and a promise to fix your registration.</p><p>BT-34 is the one to pipe up. "You're telling us you flew with Vanguard?"</p><p>"Yes. That's what I'm telling you."</p><p>"If that's true," she says slowly, carefully, "You'd probably know the name of another former squadron member. Frequents the pod racing circuits these days."</p><p>Your face lights up in recognition, partially because you've got a hook and a way out of this situation, partially because BT-34 is asking about one of your favorite people in the galaxy. "Oh yeah, of course I know Keo. Who d'you think taught me how to drift like that in a rust bucket like this? Have you been keeping an eye on the semi-pro races too? I think they've got a good chance of going pro this cycle."</p><p>N1-11 cuts your enthusiasm short. "You could have looked all of that up on the holonet for all we know. Talking about some ex-pilot and his pod racing career doesn't mean--"</p><p>"Their," BT-34 corrects. "Keo goes by they."</p><p>"Whatever. I don't care," N1-11 sputters, annoyed at being interrupted, corrected. You quickly decide you no longer like N1-11. BT-34, however, is your kind of gal. "It's not convincing enough. Reduce speed and allow us to escort you back to base. Final warning, Razor Crest. You've got nowhere else to go."</p><p>As N1-11 rains on your parade, you break through the final layers of Batuu's atmosphere. The darkness of space unfolds before you, and the meteorite field pops into view. Yeah, this should do nicely. Time for the ace up your sleeve.</p><p>"Can't jump into hyperspace through a minefield, Razor Crest. If you were really some washed-up rebel pilot, you'd know that," N1-11 presses. You wished he could see you rolling your eyes.</p><p>"Maybe this last piece of trivia will convince you, N1-11." You hand hovers over the throttle, ready to make a move. "You and your colleague are flying an old X-Wing model. T65-Bs, to be precise."</p><p>"What does that matter?"</p><p>"I'm a fan of the classics as much as anyone else, but my gut says you should have left those at the Starship Expo. See, the T65-Bs have a weird quirky defect. Nothing major, but enough to get them retired a few years ago, once a couple members of Vanguard and Anvil Squadrons--including myself--made enough noise to catch the attention of the higher ups. An esteemed officer of the New Republic like yourself probably knows this already, has been briefed on the fact that the joysticks jam if you jerk them around too hard. That's why you both were making wider turns than you would have otherwise down there with the TIEs, and why you both so graciously left me to deal with the Interceptor."</p><p>BT-34 speaks up again. "Can't read that on the holonet, boss."</p><p>N1-11 ignores her. "I urge you to plan your next move very carefully, Razor Crest. You might think you can lose us in that meteor field, but you will be sorely mistaken. You might have gotten lucky with that Interceptor, but your luck has run out."</p><p>Your fingers graze the throttle as you consider his words. "You might have a point," you say, then you pause. You're living for this drama, lulling him into a false sense of security, enjoying all of the ways you are about to embarrass this self-important jackass who can't even bother to get Keo's pronouns right. "But you see, N1-11, I very much disagree with you."</p><p>The next second, you're fully engaging the throttle, zooming away while N1-11 lets out a string of curses and follows while BT-34 is--maybe--sounds like she's laughing? You get the feeling that those two partners don't really work well together. Doesn't matter much to you, save for the fact that BT-34 does not engage in the chase. At least you can give her a good show on your way out.</p><p>Navigating through the meteor field in the way that you need to involves a lot of sharp drifts, pitches, tilts, and rolls. The ship moves a little differently now that gravity isn't weighing on her so heavily, but it's not too much trouble to adjust to. Din tells you not to crash his ship, and you tell him to shut the fuck up and let you fly. You will apologize for your tone after this. Maybe. Once he apologizes first. Later. </p><p>N1-11 fires at you, nonlethal rounds meant to incapacitate your ship, apparently unwilling to vaporize a Vanguard Vet on the off chance you're telling the truth--that surely wouldn't play well on the news. It's a tense puzzle, flitting past all of these meteorites while dodging his attacks, but it takes you even further back to the old days, puts you into a meditative state, a connection forged between mechanic-turned-pilot and machine. And it's working. The X-Wing behind you hesitates in his turns just a microsecond more each time. You estimate that you have three more turns before N1-11's joystick jams and he has to abort the chase to work on getting it unstuck. Two more turns. One more turn--</p><p>"You won't get away with this, Razor Crest. We will meet again."</p><p>"I'm quaking in my boots," you say, then you bank real hard on the next turn and navigate to the other side of the field, no problem. "No hard feelings, I hope. Go shoot down some Imps for me. And say hi to Keo next time you see them. Force be with ya'll. This has been Vangaurd Five, over and out." And then you're engaging the hyperdrive, shifting into lightspeed, and disconnecting from the comms channel. Before you do, you think you hear BT-34 say something about how flippin' cool you are. You have to agree with her.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When you set the autopilot controls and spin around in the pilot's seat, you're thrown back into your everyday world of dealing with your resident pain in the ass and his amazing kid. For a few moments there, it was like it was just you and Crest, pulling crazy moves just like the old days with your Y-Wing. Now, you have to contend with the consequences of your skirmish, the questions it has raised, the problems it has left you with.</p><p>It takes you a second to realize that you're mad at him. Not for his nerves at your flying. Not his backseat piloting, as annoying as that was. You two had made a deal, a promise to exchange pertinent info before your mutual tendency for secrets bit you in the ass in the middle of a fight. This last incident had left that deal broken. You don't know to process it, vocalize it, fix it.</p><p>And there he sits, as unreadable as ever, other than the tangible relief that comes from him in waves, posture slightly relaxed even as his arms are still firm around the kid. You thought he would yell at you, or maybe gear up for his own defense at the questions he must know are coming, or maybe kick you out of your seat first chance he could get. Mostly, he just looks tired, every bit as wrung out as you are wired up, still on high alert from the thrill of your first good and proper dogfight in years.</p><p>And so you make a decision. Your anger could wait. There were more important things.</p><p>"You alright?"</p><p>"I can't believe you just did that."</p><p>"No, I mean--are you okay? Like, physically? Is that blood on your armor?"</p><p>"It's not mine." You're reassured by his answer when he doesn't even have to look down to check. </p><p>"How 'bout you, kid? You okay?"</p><p>The little one sticks his arms out and makes grabby hands. Din gathers himself together enough to hold him out, saying "I think he wants you."</p><p>"Wants to learn how to drift like that, I bet. Don't ya, kid?" You take him in both hands, settle him on your lap.</p><p>"You teaching the child how to fly," he says with a laugh that feels more strained than it should. "Now that, I'd pay to see. From the ground. Far away. In any ship but mine."</p><p>Sounds like a good time to you. "You're in luck. I'm running a discount. Flying lessons can be his for just 25% of your earnings."</p><p>"Nice try. Get back to me once we're actually making money again."</p><p>"Fair enough." You take a pause, give them both another once over, make sure they're both okay. It's weird, watching the rest of the cockpit from this position. It's weird, the way that you don't know how to go about asking the questions that are really on your mind.</p><p>Of course he beats you to it. "How mad are you?"</p><p>It's direct, jarring, but nothing that you should have expected. You consider trying to play it off, shake off the anger you really don't want to be feeling, but you're sure he'd see right through you. "Pretty mad, honestly."</p><p>He doesn't acknowledge your answer, just stays in the seat--your normal seat--held tilted back, legs stretched out, as if he's still trying to relax, or maybe trying to avoid the brewing conflict altogether.</p><p>"So…are you going to tell me what this ship is doing connected to a New Republic prison break? Or am I just supposed to guess."</p><p>Big Mando sigh.</p><p>"Come on. You gotta give me something, here. I though you said we were going to start telling each other things."</p><p>"I know. I know I did. And I meant it. And I still do."</p><p>"So?"</p><p>"It's not…it's not good. That story…it doesn't end well." There's an edge to his voice, some undirected anger, frustration. He still isn't looking at you. You're used to his secrecy, of course, used to his tendency to protect his history, same as you. But you'd made a deal. Promised to reveal the parts of your backgrounds that could save your lives or, alternatively, get you killed. In all your time on his ship, he had always kept his word. Until now. And even with all that in mind, you're worried about him, about the note of fear in his voice, about the way he still won't look at you directly. Your priorities shift ever so slightly. The only thing you want to do is make him feel safe in all the ways he had done the same for you.</p><p>So you don't yell. Don't snark at him. Don't point out the very deal he had just broken, if only on a technicality, a lie of omission. You just say, "Hey," and then you say it again, say his name, until he finally tilts his helmet towards you. And then you hold his gaze and tell him what you think he would tell you if the situation was turned around. "Whatever it is…whatever happened…you can tell me. I've got my baggage too. You know that by now. Which means you know I can handle whatever it is. It's not going to change anything between us. Rebel's honor." </p><p>"You sound so sure."</p><p>"You listened to me tell you about how I killed my ex and then--uh" you suddenly remember the very curious goblin child in your lap and struggle to find a quick and age appropriate euphemism to get your point across--"and then hung out with me on the floor of your ship like a half hour later. The least I can do is extend that kind of grace towards you."</p><p>"He deserved it."</p><p>"You can't know that."</p><p>"He was an Imperial spy. More than that, he hurt you. I don't need to know anything else." There's anger in his voice this time too, but this time, you know exactly who it's aimed at. </p><p>The surety of it makes your heart tighten. You wonder how long it's been since someone had been that protective of you, since someone had reciprocated that same kind of ferocity to him. You try to find the words to reply, but they get caught in your throat. Something in the air shifts, as if Din, too, is only just understanding the words he said, the way he said them.</p><p>He starts to get out of his seat, and you're afraid something in this delicate conversation has broken, but he assures you with his next words. "Listen, I'll tell you everything, okay? It's what you deserve. It's what I owe you. Just let me…I'm gonna go clean up first." He digs something out of one of his pockets and tosses it to you. The datastick. "Next coordinates are on that. Set the course. I'll…" here he looks down on his armor, at the mess of him. "I'll go get cleaned up."</p><p>He leaves. You're left to look at the kid, who is watching the star streaks as they zoom by, who is attentive to the movements of your hands as you chart the next course, a task you have never been allowed to do on this ship before. You're careful, diligent, trying to focus everything you have on the knobs and dials and holograms in front of you, but still your mind wanders, wondering what this prison break was all about and why he was delaying his explanation, wondering what he could possibly be thinking beneath the layers of that beskar shell.</p><p>You don't know how afraid he is. You don't know how long he spends under the showerhead watching the water drip down his body, through his fingers, counting all of the ways he would never measure up to you.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You're good. </p><p>Din knew you would be good, knew it like it wasn't even a question, knew it from that day on Jutrand with the speeder but knew it before that too, well before, present in every interaction you've had with him since the day he crashed into your town and came to just in time to see you aim and fire a blaster so scummed up it had to have been lying dormant for years.</p><p>You're good. Good in a fight. Good in a negotiation. Good at timing your moves, playing your cards, staying one step ahead of everybody else, even him. You're good at the controls of the ship, good like he knew you would be. Except not quite. Not like this. Not this good.</p><p>Because he had one eye trained on you the whole time, from the moment he had climbed up that ladder to the moment the ship entered hyperspace, and you were completely unfazed by everything those skies threw at you.</p><p>Except that's not quite right either. You were thrown for a loop exactly once. The second the New Republic mentioned the prison break.</p><p>And now Din knows he's in trouble. He's in trouble for so many reasons. In trouble because there were things he should have told you by now, things that hadn't made their way into conversation quite yet. And that's a problem for later, because mostly--mostly he's in trouble because--fuck, just look at you. He's in <em>so</em> much trouble.</p><p>Because you're good. You're damn good. You could do anything. And yet you're here on this ship, stuck with him.</p><p>He's had thoughts like these before, wondered about the ethics of dragging you around the galaxy with him, considered finding you a nice place to set up shop on a calm planet where he would never again bring trouble to your doorstep. But then you ended up really knowing your stuff when it came to the ship. And then you ended up having his back, more than once, no questions asked. And then he stopped being surprised every time you drew a laugh from him. And then the kid took a liking to you. And then it was like you just fit. Fit on this ship. Fit here. Fit with him.</p><p>And then he found out about the bounty on you. </p><p>And then, and then, and then, he kissed you.</p><p>And try as he might he just can't seem to stop.</p><p>Doesn't want to. And he knows that's selfish, but he thinks it's not as selfish as it could be. He thinks you like it better this way too, suspects he's right every time you reach out for him in the dark. He asked you why you were here. You gave him an answer. He respects your decision-making abilities enough to believe that you would tell him if you changed your mind.</p><p>But if he were a better man, he never would have started anything with you. He would have kept you at arm's length, walked away from any chance of bringing danger down on your head. He had done it before. Had promised himself that he would do it again, if necessary. But he can count on his hand the amount of people that could have been an easy casualty to the chaos that followed him and still managed to come out on top at the end of the day. And so he reasoned with himself. Said as long as he gave you an easy out, it was okay. As long as you stayed sharp, he wouldn't have to worry about you. And he doesn't, for the most part. He trusts you, trusts your skills, trusts your ability to take the heat that comes with being on this ship and still live to fight another day. In some ways, he knows he has to, knows you wouldn't put up with anything less, his own protective instincts be damned.</p><p>So, yeah. He kissed you that day. And he slept with you a few days after that. And somewhere between then and now, he realized he was in way over his head. </p><p>It's never been like this with anyone else before. Not even close. Not for him.</p><p>Which brings him to Problem Number 1. The holopad.</p><p>Not that he minds you've been using it. Okay, well, he minds a little, but only when you forget to charge it when you're done and then he goes to use it and the battery is dead. And then he gets grumpy about it, but then he charges it and boots it back up and sees that it's only dead because you were scrolling all night trying to locate an appropriate ion converter for the ship because that's the kind of good natured thing that you would do. But then you hear him grumping about it and you walk into whatever room he's in and apologize and before he can stop himself he says don't you have a holopad of your own that you can forget to charge? And then you just tilt your head and look at him and say I'm not sure you want me to answer that question, so he says why not, and then you say you did have one but it burned to ash when the bar that you lived on top of caught on fire along with every other thing you owned, and then he says fuck, and you say yeah, and then he feels like a jackass for even mentioning anything at all. So, yeah, that sort of seals the deal. On most days he doesn't mind when you use his holopad.</p><p>What he does mind is--well, that's not even the right phrase either. It's not that he minds. It's just…it scares him. Twists his gut in all the wrong ways, makes him fidget with the preset functions on the control board if he thinks about it for too long. Advertisements in the sidebar of every holonet page he visits. They say "Pilots Wanted." Algorithmically generated, paid for by the New Republic, targeted towards those who were most likely to take them up on their offer.</p><p>Din knows he's not a bad pilot. He also knows that there's no chance in hell they're targeting him.</p><p>He'd been able to convince himself it was just a coincidence. Maybe an indication of all the forums you had be scrolling through, looking for the right parts for his pre-Imperial vessel, but nothing more. Hadn't been able to bring himself to check the browsing history, didn't know what kind of breach of privacy that would entail, was trying not to think about it.</p><p>But then he saw you at the controls of his ship. And you looked like you belonged there. And you looked like you were free.</p><p>More than that, you looked so sure of yourself. You looked like you were fighting for something.</p><p>Which brings him to Problem Number 2. Before he met the kid, before he met you, what had he fought for?</p><p>He's thought about this before too, thought about the inadequacies of his youth, the mistakes he's made. And to be honest, with all the fucked up shit he has both gone through and perpetrated, he thinks he's come out the other side okay. Well adjusted, even. Still a little messed up, sure, but there was enough heart left in him that day he dropped the foundling off with the Imps to know he had made an irredeemable mistake. Those hours in between drop-off and pick-up morphed into a guilt he will carry with him for the rest of his life. He knows he deserves it. Knows he deserves worse. </p><p>And then there's you. And there are days that he sees so much of himself in you that it scares him. The strategist. The survivor. The sarcastic asshole. The adapter. The orphan. The checkered past. The beaten down. The get back up again. It's almost like looking into a mirror until he remembers all of the ways your broken pieces don't quite fit together. </p><p>Because you were a war hero. Dedicated years of your life to fighting off the fascist Imperial scum that had obliterated entire worlds, including the one belonging to the very people who had taken him in. And you wouldn't even lead with that fact in an introduction, wouldn't tell him about it until the moment you had to. That gets him more than anything. He might never know about every loss you suffered in the war, but he knows at least some of the ways it still haunts you, hears you call out in your sleep at night, is the one to cradle your body in his and sooth you back to safer dreams, all without waking you up. You'd left your Y-Wing behind a while ago, that much he gathered, but your time served was costing you to this day. And you're still hiding the hurt in all the ways you can.</p><p>You're a little messed up, same as him. He sees it in the faraway look you get in your eyes sometimes, the tension you are constantly carrying around with you, the scars that dot your body, the ways there are still some things you avoid telling him. He sees it most anytime he gets too close to asking about bad deeds done, as if running with a merc group for 7 months to keep you and your brother together--or, hell, killing an Imp spy who had dared to lay a hand on you was anywhere close to anything he had--</p><p>Which, he supposes, brings him straight to Problem Number 3. The prison break. The crew he ran with. The one he returned to even after a lifetime of experience had assured him he knew better. The one that left an innocent man dead.</p><p>You could do so much better than this. Than him. For yourself. For others. You could go back to flying. You could go back to running some cantina in the middle of nowhere. You could go back to a life that resembles safety. Security. An honest day's work. And it scares him. Scares him more than it has any right to.</p><p>He's tried to turn his life around. Tried to do better. Has succeeded, in some ways, but every day bring another set of questionable decisions he's made in the name of survival. And even if he was better than this, better than he ever thought he could be, better than everyone believed he could become, it wouldn't be enough for you. He'd do everything right, and you could still walk away. And he wouldn't be able to blame you. He'd deserve it. Because even at his best, you'd still deserve more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You've got a bottle in your hand when he finally comes out of the 'fresher in a new set of clothes, helmeted, but otherwise unarmored. Half of your mind has been busy brainstorming a fix for that left engine, running possible troubleshooting scenarios, but the other half of your mind knows it's only something you're thinking about as a distraction, a way to keep your mind moving, keep your mind off of him.</p><p> The way Din had left you in the cockpit had been weird. The way he had taken so much time in the 'fresher was also weird. The way you were still a little mad at him was absolutely the weirdest, and you didn't like it, didn't like it one bit, didn't like how all these bits of weird said you should tread carefully.</p><p>He told you his name. Held you in the dead of night. Made you promises that you actually believed. Promises he had mostly managed to keep so far, despite their immensity. And yet, he hadn't set the record straight about whatever the New Republic was talking about at the first possible moment. Seemed to be actively avoiding it.</p><p>So. Yeah. Booze.</p><p>To be clear, you hadn't opened the bottle yet. These were traditional shots you were supposed to be having. Celebratory in nature. You had celebrated alone before, but that sort of celebration was always a little more sad than it should have been. So you waited.</p><p>There's a moment where you just look at each other, him at the door to the 'fresher, you on the ground with your back against the wall, bottle in hand, looking at the distorted mirror his helmet creates. You both spare a glance at the kiddo that tottles in between you, trying to find someone who will snap out of it and give him those cookies he definitely deserved for staying so still and quiet on his latest big adventure.</p><p>You could say anything in those moments. Maybe apologize for the rough flying, for sending a ping to N1-11, but neither of those were really your fault. You could ask your questions, be as direct with him as he is with you most days, but you don't know how, haven't figured out a question you feel safe enough asking yet, because everything you could ask feels accusatory. <em>Why didn't you tell me before? What do I have to do to make you trust me? What are you so afraid of?</em></p><p>He could say anything in those moments too. Tell you what you wanted to know without you having to figure out a way to ask. Apologize for keeping you in the dark. Compliment you on a fight well flown. </p><p>He doesn't. The kid captures his attention in full first, tugging on his pantleg. He looks down, but directs his question to you. "When did he last eat?"</p><p>It's not where your mind is at right now, so it takes you a few seconds to figure it out. "Before the quals started. So yeah, it's been awhile."</p><p>"Quals?"</p><p>"Qualifying rounds. Pod racing."</p><p>Din picks the kid up and takes him on a quick walk to the galley to get him something to eat, continuing the conversation with you, continuing to look anywhere but your face. "Where were you watching pod racing on Batuu?"</p><p>"Your holopad."</p><p>"I don't subscribe to pod racing."</p><p>"You do now."</p><p>"Really?" There's a defeated, exasperated tone to his voice, an edge of forgiveness there already, something that tells you he doesn't really mind that you hacked his holopad. </p><p>"I'll reimburse you for the credits," you say, because you had always intended to.</p><p>"It's fine," he says, because of course he does. You want to close your eyes and live in this conversation, pretend this exchange is your biggest problem today, that there are no harder conversations to follow. It's a choice you could make, a conscious effort to let the things that are bothering you go, an exit plan, an easy way out.</p><p>It wouldn't really be easy though. It would come back later. It would hurt more.</p><p>He sits down across from you, back to the opposing wall. The kid is next to him. The distance between you is evident in more ways than one.</p><p>Mostly, you just want to feel his warmth up against you.</p><p>"You start drinking already?" He nods to the bottle in your hand. You had almost forgotten about it.</p><p>"Not yet. Waiting for…" waiting for something. For closure. For things to feel okay again. "Waiting for you. Not as fun alone."</p><p>"Hasn't stopped you before," he says. Then he says, "Shit, that came out wrong."</p><p>You see him wince just a little bit, body language giving away just a bit more than he normally does. It speaks to the entire situation, to the fact that something's off here, that it's not just you. "It’s okay," you say absentmindedly. And then you explain. "This is a little different. An old tradition."</p><p>"Tradition?"</p><p>"Yeah. From the war. Three TIEs shot down, three shots. We used to pretend it was a Vanguard thing, but I'm pretty sure every rebel squadron did it at some point or another."</p><p>"That sounds like the type of tradition that would catch up with you real quick."</p><p>You give him a wry smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "I'll admit to flying a few missions hungover. Where did you think my drinking habit started?"</p><p>"Was trying not to think about that, actually."</p><p>You shrug. "It could be worse. There were a lot of hard drugs passed around. We're pretty sure the guy who used to fly support with us did spice in the actual cockpit on longer missions."</p><p>"Shit. And your superiors just let it happen?"</p><p>"I don't think they knew about him. But honestly, probably wouldn’t have mattered if they did. They wanted results. Didn't care what we did as long as we delivered. There was one time--fuck, I forgot about this…there was one time we were in this massive battle. Lots of Imp capitol ships, all descending on a rebel base. Important one. Someone up the chain fucked us over and didn't pass on the warning when he heard they were coming. We found out once they dropped out of hyper right above us. Pretty much every ship the rebellion had access to was deployed to keep the heat off the base while they evacuated. We managed to hold the line somehow, but we must have been fighting for something like 30 hours. My ship kept running out of fuel. Had to go back to the station three or four times for quick repairs and weapon recharges. One of the few times I had to switch over to another ship mid-battle 'cause I just kept getting banged up. The second time I touched down, they gave me a bite to eat and a shot of something 'experimental' to keep me awake. Never found out what it was, but whatever it was, it worked."</p><p>"Maker."</p><p>"Yeah. Stayed awake for two days straight. Slept for a week once it was all over. Never looked at Caf the same way again." You hadn't meant to monologue, haven't forgotten the concerns you have, but for some reason you feel better. You always feel better when you talk to him. Even when you're mad. Even when you're worried. You don't understand it. "Seen a lot of good pilots walk away from the war with an addiction to something or other. I figure if all I got out of it was a tendency to overindulge on my drinking habit from time to time, I came out okay."</p><p>He just looks at you. You shrug at his stare, take a long look at the bottle, then put it down beside you. Doesn't feel right to open right now, and dimly, you think about how uncharacteristic this is for you, the choice to stay sober, aware, alert in the face of interpersonal conflict. The bottle lands on the floor of the ship with a sense of finality, a sharp thud that reminds you of the sound his beskar makes when he takes it off at night.</p><p>He's still and unreadable when you look back up at him, and for a long time, he doesn't say anything. You don't either, stinging from the memory you had just shared, maybe a bit mad at yourself for spilling so much grief into your words when Din was clearly dealing with his own shit. "Sorry. I didn't mean to dump on you like that."</p><p>You watch his shoulders as he takes in a big breath, less of a sigh and more like a move he makes to steady himself. He looks down at the foundling sitting next to him, the one currently starting to doze into his soup, and instead of responding to you, attends to him instead, lifting him up and bundling him into the hammock for some undisturbed sleep. You watch him do this without really thinking much of anything, and so when he walks back to you, stops at your feet, offers a hand, you don't move to take it immediately.</p><p>"C'mon," he prompts you. "We should talk." </p><p>Talking sounds good. Talking sounds like an explanation, sounds like he won't leave you in the dark anymore, sounds like he won't hide from whatever it is he has to tell you. You take his hand. He pulls you up. You aren't expecting his arms to encircle you, the tight embrace he pulls you into, the familiarity of it that overwhelms you until it ebbs into something else. It still feels safe. It still feels like home. But there's fear there too, fear and hope and loss rolled into something that speaks, tentatively, of confession, like he's about to ask for forgiveness. Like he's afraid you're going to say no.</p><p>How could he not know that he already had anything he could want from you? All he needed to do was ask.</p><p>He doesn't though. Doesn't ask. Not yet. Instead he moves his head next to yours, tightens his hold on you, speaks low into your ear. "You don't have single thing to apologize for. Don't ever think you have to. Not for something like that. Not to me. Not to anyone." And he says it like he's talking to you but he also says it like he's talking to himself, like there's more he wants to say beneath the surface, like he's waiting until the right time to say it.</p><p>You don't really know what to say to that, or how to react, so you just nod your head against his neck, trying to take some of his stress away as he tries to take away some of yours.</p><p>He lets you go not long after that, nudges you to the ladder and lets you go up first. You have a moment of indecision in the cockpit, unsure of what seat to take, and he must think the same thing, because he hovers behind you in the doorway for a moment before he leans against the wall with a hard thunk and slides down to the ground. You think it's a good idea, so you mirror him, one knee up and one extended, sitting across from him like you had in the hull, but closer now, because the cockpit demands it, because your legs can slide next to his this way, steal some of the warmth that radiates off of him. </p><p>You can reach his ankle this way, so you do, give him a light squeeze once, twice, that you hope he'll find reassuring. He answers by tapping his foot on your thigh, once, twice, message received. And then he talks.</p><p>"Remember that merc crew I told you about?"</p><p> "Yeah. After you left the Fighting Corps. Or…wait, is that the one with your ex?"</p><p>"Same one," he says. And then he takes a deep breath. "Listen. I left that crew a long time ago. For good reason. I never meant to go back. Thought I burned that bridge and turned the corner. Wanted to do better. Get away from some of the shit they pulled…I stayed longer than I should have the first time. There's no good excuse for it, so I won't make one. But I swear I'm telling the truth when I say I never thought I would have to go back.</p><p>"Then came the kid. And I messed up. Already told you about that one. When I got him back from the Imps, I destroyed my ties with the guild. Lost my line of income. This was a few months before you came on board. Hadn't been able to sort everything out with Karga yet. Bottom line, I needed a job and they were hiring. Didn't know it was a prison break until it was too late to back out. Didn't know they wanted to use my ship either.</p><p>"Look…I just…I had to. For the kid. Needed some funds to get the ship fixed, keep him out of trouble. I didn't mean for anyone to end up dead." </p><p>You sense grief in his voice, regret. The gravity of his guilt hits you then. This wasn't a regular stupid thing that he had done, some stupid stumble over some stupid droid, some beskar-brained move of getting into a fight he was hopelessly outnumbered in. </p><p>He gives you the highlights from his story, ends with the explanation of the droid that is decapitated and hanging on his wall. You were wondering about that.</p><p>"Huh. So that's what you do to rogue pilots that fly your ship without your approval."</p><p>"I promise not to make it a habit."</p><p>"That's good," you say, and then push yourself away from the wall and scoot over to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder. Your hand finds his way to his, and you hold it, memorize the pattern of his palm, knuckles, callouses. His gaze hasn't followed you over here, but his hand accepts yours readily, almost nervously. It helps you understand what's exactly on his mind. "It wasn't your fault, you know. Sounds like you did everything you could."</p><p>Another sigh. He shakes his head. You've never seen his helmet look so morose. "I'd like to think so, but I don't know. Still keeps me up at night sometimes."</p><p>You know the feeling. You lean your head on his shoulder, give his hand a squeeze. "That's 'cause you're a good person."</p><p>He doesn't reply, but you can feel his doubt.</p><p>"Don't take my word for it. Trust the kid. I hear he's a pretty good judge of character." </p><p>"I was a different person before I met him," he says softly.</p><p>"I was too," you say.</p><p>"You were a war hero."</p><p>You're quick to shoot him down. "I was soldier fighting in a mess that other people made. I have a better reaction time than most. That's all."</p><p>"They gave you a commendation. That means something. Doesn’t it?" </p><p>You scoff. "That's just shit they give you so you don't have to think about all the lives you've ended. You know how many Capitol ships I helped take down? Dozens. You know how many lives that translates to? Something like thousands."</p><p>"Imperials."</p><p>"Yeah. Imperial soldiers. Some of whom were probably the worst scum in the galaxy. But a lot of them just got caught fighting in a mess that other people made. Same as me."</p><p>"You're being generous."</p><p>"And you're being one-sided. Trust me. I've thought a lot about this. It's not like I…I don't know…I don't regret what I've done. The Empire was ruthless. Mowed down anyone who even thought about standing in their way. Took countless lives, and ruined everything for those they left behind. So I don't regret it. You just saw me take down three TIEs, no problem. I'd do it again if I had to. Would probably have just as much fun. At the end of the day, it was them or us. I'll choose us every time. But I'm not going to glorify that choice. It was a job. It was a paycheck. At some moments, it was revenge. At others, it was a reason to get up in the morning. It happened to be something I was good at, so I kept doing it. But at the end of the day, those were still lives that I took. Don't call me a hero for something like that."</p><p>You think he might push back on you, but instead he gives you his other hand, holds one of yours tight in both of his. Some time passes, and then he says, "You never told me why you left."</p><p>You give him a small laugh, a light smile. Not because it's funny, but because the question makes sense, is predictable in the way he's become familiar to you, and it gives you a sense of comfort. "Actually, you have all the pieces to that puzzle. You just haven't put them together yet."</p><p>You give him a minute to solve the problem himself, but eventually he shakes his head. "I could guess, but it's probably better if you just tell me."</p><p>You rub your thumb over his knuckle while you recount the story. "It was a little after the war ended. The Rebellion shifted into the New Republic. Hierarchical structures had shifted a bit too, but the missions still made sense, still seemed like they did more good than bad in the long run, so I stayed a little bit longer. But then…hang on, back up. Remember Essels?"</p><p>A pause while he places his recognition. "The place where you left your Ex."</p><p>'Left' is a kind word for what you did, but you don't bother to correct him. "Yeah. So…long story short, I heard from a credible source that he was stationed on a base there. Passed the info up the chain, but no one would let me do anything about it. I wanted to take him down, but an order was an order, so I didn't do anything about it. Until the very last day of my commission. I chose not to renew. Flew one final mission, returned to base, debriefed, booked a ticket to some moon or another and then, instead of getting on the transport ship I…I don't know…decided to do something impulsive instead."</p><p>"You went after him."</p><p>"Yeah. Probably would have gotten away with it, but, well, did some stupid shit on my way out. Like, uh…I stole my Y-Wing."</p><p>"You--what?"</p><p>"I was gonna bring it back. Rebels honor. It wouldn't have even been that bad. Wasn't flying with the New Republic anymore, so wasn't under direct orders or anything. And there was a chance they never would have even known it was gone. Anyway, again, it's a long story, but the short version is that there was an Imperial listening post on Essels that the New Republic was planning to take down. And, uh, I didn't know about it."</p><p>"You blew an op, didn't you."</p><p>"Just a little bit." </p><p>"Fuck. How much trouble were you in?"</p><p>"They almost certainly would have given me a dishonorable discharge if they could have, except for the fact that me and my trusty Y-Wing helped destroy the post on our way back. So I cleaned up the mess I made. Just got really messy there for a second."</p><p>"You…Maker, I don't even know how to react to that."</p><p>"Pretty badass, though, right?"</p><p>"I'm not going to enable you."</p><p>"I'll take that as a yes. Anyway, a lot of people yelled at me when I returned the Y-Wing. Like, people from all the way up the chain. And then I got grilled from someone in Intelligence for two days asking how I managed to get in and get out of the Essels base without getting myself or my ship blown to pieces. And then we worked out a deal. If I did some recon work for them, they would overlook my, uh, self-directed mission."</p><p>"How long?"</p><p>"Hmm?"</p><p>"How long did you work in Intelligence?"</p><p>"Was supposed to be another two years."</p><p>"Supposed to be?"</p><p>"Yeah. Ended up only being a few months."</p><p>"What happened?"</p><p>"I don't know. After a while I couldn't take it anymore. It was a lot different than flying missions. I was already trying to leave. They gave me a few assignments that just…didn't make sense. Ineffective. Did more harm than good. I tried to quit and they wouldn't let me. So then I forced their hand. Showed up to a briefing completely wasted and they gave me a medical discharge. And that was that. Military career over."</p><p>"And then the cantina?"</p><p>"Nah, first a lot of planet hopping, traveling for reasons other than finding something to shoot. A lot of visits to a lot of bars. But then, yeah, eventually I found someone willing to lend me the credits to open a cantina. And then I had almost paid all of it off, when some shiny bastard in some rust-bucket ship came along and set the damn thing on fire."</p><p>"Sorry."</p><p>Your response comes quick. "Don't be," you say, and then you lean your head on his shoulder, nudge a little closer to him, enjoying the feeling of cloth that meets the bare skin of your cheek, your forearm, rather than the chill of beskar. "It was time to go. Was starting to feel trapped behind that counter. Worried I would shrivel up and die of something stupid, like heart disease or old age or something. This is much more fun. Would much rather spend my time kicking Imperial-ass without anyone looking over my shoulder." </p><p>"Is this where I apologize for my backseat flying?" A light laugh comes from his modulator, a shift to humor that is not unwelcome. </p><p>You make a big show of pondering the question. "Hmmm…nope, try again later. And with less sass and more sincerity next time."</p><p>"Noted." He gives two squeezes to the hand he holds, always two squeezes, two kicks, two taps, like some sort of encoded message he wants you to understand. You don't, but that's okay. He leans his helmeted head lightly on yours, and it feels something like closure. Close, but not quite.</p><p>"You know I'm not mad about anything you had to do before we met, right? I know what you do. I know what that means. I know how hard it is to be in this galaxy alone. So, yeah, especially if whatever it was had to do with you or the kid making it to the next day…I could never be mad at that."</p><p>No answer. You try again.</p><p>"If anything, I just would have wanted a heads up before…you know."</p><p>"Yeah," he says, and then he sighs, and you can feel it against you, the way it moves his chest, his shoulder. "I know I should have told you sooner. I know I made you a promise. I know I broke it. I'm not going to let that happen again."</p><p>Two squeezes, from you this time, because you're still not quite sure what it means, but you know it makes you feel good, and you think it'll make him feel that way too. "I know. It's okay. I trust you, Din."</p><p>"I know. And I don't ever want to make you regret that choice."</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The adrenaline crash hits you hard, or maybe it's the relief that everything's okay, that your beskar buddy isn't intentionally holding you at arms-length, that whatever it was that was going on between you, it was still there, still whole, unfractured, unbroken. You don't realize you're falling asleep on his shoulder until he nudges you, rouses you as gently as he knows how. You're squinting in the bright light of the cockpit while he stands up, offers you a hand. You take it. He fusses over you as you go down the ladder, and you grumble back at him. He reminds you that you're half asleep, as if you could forget. You remind him that, mere hours ago, you took down an Interceptor in a ship that <em>definitely</em> should not be able to take down an Interceptor. Then you trip over your own feet. He steadies you, then says, fuck, I can't believe I let you fly this thing. He says it like an accusation but you take it like a compliment. And then you remind him he didn't have a choice. He says don't get used to it. You want to call him on his bluff, but you're tired, so you make a mental note to bring it up again tomorrow.</p><p>You're very nearly drifting back to sleep, burrowed into the sharp edges between you and him, the bone of his hip against yours, the edge of his shoulder where you rest your head, the knuckles that twine around each other as if they were always searching each other out. He's not falling into his dreams like you are though, sleep schedules still not quite matching like you want them to, so he cards his free hand through your hair, breathes in the scent of you, whispers something in the dark space of the bunk.</p><p>"I never got the chance to tell you what mesh'la means."</p><p>And it makes your lips twitch up in a quick smile, because Maker, this man is a total <em>sap.</em></p><p>"I, uh…I was just trying to distract you earlier. I know what it means. Looked it up a couple weeks ago on your holopad. Translating app."</p><p>His chest moves in a silent laugh, his smile pressed against your forehead in a gentle kiss. "You've been letting me walk around thinking that you don't know what it means for <em>weeks?"</em></p><p>You fight back a yawn. "Like a week and a half, maybe. But yeah. I already know. You don't have to tell me." And then you're being pulled under in a way you can't fight anymore, but even still, you think you hear him send you off with a final chain of whispers. </p><p>He says it doesn't matter, doesn't matter if you figured it out on your own, because he'd be an idiot, he'd be so, so stupid if he never let you hear it from him in a way you understand, if he never told you how thrilling and terrifying you are with a blaster in your hand, how striking you look when you wield the welder, how he'll never get the image of you with motor oil smudged on your cheeks out of his mind, how the way you crease your forehead in concentration when you're problem solving drives him absolutely mad, how he's never seen anything as incredible as your hands at the controls of his ship, how he would never stop looking at you if the galaxy stopped giving him reasons to look away. And then he tells you that you're beautiful. And maybe he says more, says something you can't hear, something that doesn't reach you in the depths of your sleep.</p><p>You don't hear him ask you to stay. You don't hear him ask you to never, ever leave his side.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Respect each others' pronouns, kids! And don't do drugs! </p><p> </p><p>Also, while I was having a bad trip (on !!!prescribed!! drugs) I figured out what's going on with this fic. There's probably a handful of chapters left. There will be a sequel but it'll probably all depend on what happens in season 3, so I might not get to it right away. In the meantime, will probably put up a series of one-shots between these two because their snark is just too damn fun to write.</p><p>Also also, I have to get back to learning and reading and teaching and writing and grading papers, so updates will be slow from here on out while I figure out what I can feasibly do with my limited lung capacity and chronic fatigue. Woo!</p><p>I want to give you all so many thanks for reading along with this and telling me how much you like it. I've been isolated in my apartment for too damn long and sharing this story with you all makes me feel a little less alone. I've been hearing in the comments that a lot of you seemed to really need a portrayal of a good and healthy relationship to help keep you going and I'm really happy that what I've been doing has been so helpful for so many of you. Intimacy comes in so many forms, and non-sexual intimacy is criminally underrated, so remember that you all deserve so much love in all of its forms, romantic or not. Hang in there and keep up the good fight. Okay kids *pats head, ties your scarf, gives you mugs of tea and hot coco (unless you are somewhere warm in which case have a tube of sunscreen and some coconut water or something idk)* be good and be safe and stay hydrated and eat a vegetable and get some damn sleep, if only because your grumpy internet aunt told you so. Until next time.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Three Nights and Days on the Razor Crest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"You'd be in so much trouble if this was the inner-rim."</p><p>"Good thing we're in the outer-rim, hours away from a safe landing, getting ready to freeze to death."</p><p>"Gallows humor. Nice."</p><p>"Gotten plenty of opportunities to practice lately."</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, like, seriously, this was supposed to be 5 nights and it was just supposed to be shits and giggles and cute little antics. My god. I have so much work to do but I'm writing this instead. Goodness gracious.</p><p>Anyway, if you want happy happy fun times, just read part one. If you want angst angst ANGST galore, read the whole thing through. This was going to be five nights but honestly I don't know what to say after night 3. There are no more words. Sheesh. I'll save it for the bonus features I guess.</p><p>TW for sexual content in the last section. Also TW for peril and talk of death but nothing terribly immediate. And also hella angst. Yikes, you guys. Don't know where all of that came from. </p><p>Also, yes, more Squadrons Easter Eggs. We love Keo.</p><p>And thank you for all the well-wishes yall! I truly appreciate it. Feeling so much better and will probably get to come off the steroids in another week or so. Take this as my thanks! Woo!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>1.</p><p>Something in the ether between the space of dreams and the world of the awakened gives a rattling, stuttering cough. It sounds concerning. Probably something you should check out. You aren't dead yet, though, or at least not in any way that the narrow sliver of conscious thought you have can detect, so it goes into the "worry about it later" category. It's warm, wherever you are. Cozy. You can drift off for another few hours.</p><p>"Hey."</p><p>Sounds like your bunkmate. But if it was important, you'd probably be awake already. He can tell you whatever he has to tell you later.</p><p>"Hey, c'mon. Wake up."</p><p>"Mmmmmrph?"</p><p>"Did you hear that?"</p><p>"Mmmrg."</p><p>"C'mon. Wake up. I heard something."</p><p>There's a haunting groan that echoes through the hull, but this time it isn't from you.</p><p>"Something's up with the ship." He shakes your shoulder. "Come on, we should take a look."</p><p>In response to that, you bury your head under the pillow. "If it was important, the alarms would have sounded."</p><p>"Only if the alarms are working."</p><p>"Tuned them up while I was waiting for you on Jutrand. They should be fine. Go back to sleep."</p><p>"Something's not right."</p><p>"We aren't dead yet. It's fine."</p><p>"Your metric for 'fine' is worrying."</p><p>You don't respond, and for a moment, everything is quiet. You think you might have won this one. Then he says, "do you hear that?"</p><p>"The only thing I hear is you trying to keep me awake."</p><p>"Exactly."</p><p>"What the hell are you getting at?"</p><p>"The heater's off."</p><p>Oh. That's not ideal. "Then go turn it back on." You give him a gentle nudge on his shin with your heel. If he was looking for encouragement for a simple task, you guess you could do that.</p><p>"Sounds like it just gave out." All the talking has pulled you a little bit more into the waking world than you'd like, so you're alert enough to note the sleep in his voice that is only vaguely masking his worry. His legs are still tangled with yours, one arm still under you, one resting on your shoulder from when he tried to shake you awake, but he's sitting upright just a little bit, a little further from sleep than you are.</p><p>This is why you say, "Then go and fix it," like it's the simplest suggestion in the world.</p><p>"I thought that's what I was paying you for." Then he lies back down and curls a little closer around you, into the warmth under the covers, letting go of the immediacy of the situation even as he tries to convince you of it.</p><p>You come out from under the pillow to reply, or maybe to bring your body closer to his. "Pretty sure you missed last payday, boss."</p><p>"Don't call me boss," he says sleepily into your neck, breath warm on your skin. "And do I have to remind you of the reason we're short on funds?"</p><p>"Sounds like a convenient excuse to me."</p><p>"You know I'm good for it. C'mon. Go fix the heater."</p><p>"I'm off the clock."</p><p>"This is a 24/7 job. It's in your contract."</p><p>"Never saw any contract."</p><p>"Too bad. You agreed to it when you came on board. Legally binding. Go fix the heater."</p><p>"I'm taking a vacation day."</p><p>"You don't get vacation."</p><p>"Fuck. No vacation. No healthcare. No regular pay schedule. Your company benefits suck, Djarin."</p><p>"You get healthcare. It's called whatever you find in the med cabinet. And there's at least one company benefit I know you enjoy." He grinds his hips against you to emphasize the statement. You elbow him in response.</p><p>"Pretty sure that's to your benefit as much as it is to mine."</p><p>"Still. Haven't heard any complaints."</p><p>"If you're looking for complaints, I have a bunch to file. Namely, my boss isn't letting me sleep."</p><p>"Take it up with HR. C'mon. Go fix the heater."</p><p>"You're ridiculous."</p><p>"Yes," he agrees. "Now come on. Get up."</p><p>"Nope. No can do. I'm striking today. Gonna unionize. 8 hours of sleep and a full liquor cabinet or bust."</p><p>"Liquor cabinet was full a few stops ago until you got into it."</p><p>"One bottle does not equate to a full liquor cabinet. And what was I supposed to do? Admire how pretty it looked on the shelf?"</p><p>"If you get up right now and fix the heater, I'll grab you another one at the next stop."</p><p>"You were gonna do that anyway. Gotta make it worth my while."</p><p>"Fine. Name your price."</p><p>"50% of your take."</p><p>"You fucking kidding me?"</p><p>"Nope."</p><p>"Not gonna happen. Negotiations are over. Go fix the heater."</p><p>"You know that's even harder to do with the way you're wrapped around me, right? If you want the heater fixed, you go do it."</p><p>"Aren't you always saying something about not letting some dumb bucket-head man fix your problems for you?"</p><p>"Don't use my feminism against me. I'm not the one insisting there's a problem here."</p><p>"We're not gonna last long in hyperspace without that heater. This is most definitely your problem. I know you know that. C'mon."</p><p>"Yeah, I know that. And I know you know that. Which means if I don't get up to fix the heater, you'll do it for me. Besides, you're the one always trying to convince me that you actually know what you're doing with this ship. Go prove it."</p><p>He makes a dissatisfied hum, whines in the way he only does when he's sleep-drunk. "Don't want to. It's nice in here. You're warm."</p><p>"Guess we're gonna freeze to death in a few hours then."</p><p>"Maker. What if I said please?"</p><p>"You could try it."</p><p>"Please?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>He huffs at that, nuzzles closer into your neck. "What do you want? Want me to admit you're the better mechanic? I'll do it. I'll say you're the better mechanic."</p><p>"Don't need you to. I already know. Don't need the validation. Go fix the heater."</p><p>"I--how are you turning the tables around on me?"</p><p>You roll over in his arms to face him, seeking him out, one hand on his cheek while you try to meet his lips. You're only slightly off, planting a kiss on the corner of his mouth, but you're too tired to correct your mistake, or even care, really. "I'm good at negotiating. Come on. The sooner you get out there and fix it, the sooner you can get back here and warm up with me." You settle deeper into the sheets, the pillow, marking your words as final. </p><p>He grumbles, reaches out for his helmet, slips it on. "We're revisiting your contract."</p><p>"Hell yeah we are. I told you. I'm unionizing."</p><p>"You can't unionize with just one employee."</p><p>"Watch me."</p><p>More grumbles. He pushes your leg a little as he slips out of the bunk, a gesture you're sure is meant to communicate his annoyance but comes off as incredibly endearing instead. You smile to yourself, triumphant, dreamy, and doze back to sleep. You're vaguely aware of the bunk door sliding open a few minutes later when he pushes the kid into your arms, picked up from his pram where he was sleeping. Din says, "Keep him warm." You accept the job, mostly because the kid is a delight to snuggle, mostly because it does not require you getting out of bed. </p><p>You don't know how much time has passed when he wakes you up again, shaking your foot. You're aware of the ways in which it is colder this time, but you chalk that up to the lack of body heat next to you.</p><p>"Wake up," he says, and his voice is all business, so you swallow any protests you might have otherwise given and sit up instead, mindful of the kid at your side.</p><p>"What is it?" you say, voice low but otherwise matched with his urgency. If he wasn't back in bed yet, something bigger was up.</p><p>"Need your help."</p><p>You nod in the dark, knowing his night vision would pick up your answer. He disappears from the open end of the bunk. You tuck a few blankets around the kid, peeling one off to wrap around yourself, then follow him. </p><p>"What's up?" The chill is more noticeable out here, floor freezing on your bare feet, cold creeping in against your bare legs. If you thought about it for too long, you would panic, but that wouldn't do anyone any good.</p><p>He's on his knees, peering into a panel, tools scattered around him. He waves at you to come closer. "I think something overheated. Wiring is fried." You kneel down next to him and he points out the problems. You fumble around for a flashlight, turn it on, follow his explanations. "I scanned for possible pit stops, but we're about eight hours from the nearest habitable planet. Not sure we have that long. How screwed are we?"</p><p>You shake your head, still trying to turn on your brain and clear out the cobwebs. "We've got everything we need to fix the wiring. The real problem might be the intake valve. I just replaced that fucker too. Dammit. Whatever, think I bought two. Just gotta find where I put it. So, not as screwed you probably thought."</p><p>You feel him relax next to you, if only a bit. "How long will it take to fix?"</p><p>"Should have it finished before we freeze, if that's what you're asking." Although now that you say the words, you think you can see your breath, and you're a little less confident in your estimation. "We'll be okay, Din. You can go back to the bunk. Keep the kid warm. I'll take it from here."</p><p>"No. Tell me what you need."</p><p>"Din, seriously, there's no reason for us both--"</p><p>He says your name, interrupts, same no nonsense tone, and you know you don't have time to argue.</p><p>"Fine. Okay. You wanna start on the soldering? I'll search for the spare parts we need."</p><p>"Copy that." All business, even as he slips a hand around your arm as you stand up, squeezes twice, lets you go before you have a chance to react. "Might want to get into something warmer."</p><p>You pull the blanket you brought with you tighter around your body and decide you're okay for now. It won't take long. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Famous last words.</p><p>The repair is a blur, a montage of the two of you tag-teaming in and out, relenting to the cold, pulling more layers on as the minutes tick by. You aren't worried, not quite, but it'll be close. Din makes some caf, offers you a cup once, then again. The first you decline on principle--you're hellbent on going back to bed after this, and besides, caffeine makes you twitchy--the second you accept based on the simple laws of thermodynamics. You are cold. Caf is warm. He doesn't have any tea on board.</p><p>He holds the flashlight for you, or you hold the wiring out of the way for him. At one point, he grabs the kid from the bunk, swaddling him in his arms, keeping him warm. You tell him the rest is a one-person job, but he won't leave you alone. Says something about "just in case," and you don't want to think about what that means. He drapes another blanket over you, gives you his gloves when the numbing starts to set in, but they're too big, make you even sloppier, so you give them back. He asks if you want him to tag in, but you're close, it'll be fine. He sits back against the wall near where you're working, presses the side of his leg against yours, fixes his helmet on you, gives you space while staying as close as possible. You appreciate the gesture, the warmth, even as you know he's probably panicked on the inside, running through the "what if's" that are best not said out loud. Probably better to derail whatever train of thought he's hurtling towards.</p><p>"You aren't falling asleep on me under there, are you? HR wouldn't be happy to hear that."</p><p>The helmet tilts, or a shiver wracks his body. "I don't know of a single labor law that says I'm not able to get some shut-eye now and then. Besides, they'll have bigger issues with me. I'm sleeping with my employee."</p><p>You snort, finish the wiring, zero in on the valve. "That's true. Didn't even file a relationship-disclosure. You'd be in so much trouble if this was the inner-rim."</p><p>"Good thing we're in the outer-rim, hours away from a safe landing, getting ready to freeze to death."</p><p>"Gallows humor. Nice."</p><p>"Gotten plenty of opportunities to practice lately."</p><p>"You're just cranky because I made you get out of bed first." The cold sets into your bones, turns you rigid, but you try not to let it show. "Can you get this valve for me? Can't--can't get a good grip on it. My hands. Fuck."</p><p>He shifts, passes the kid to you, watches you point out the piece you were trying to get. "You want it out?"</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"Gotta get you a decent pair of gloves."</p><p>"Gotta get me a lot of things. Can you get it?"</p><p>"Hang on--yeah, I got it. Trade you for the new one."</p><p>You swap, give up your spot in front of the open panel, sit where he sat before, leg against his. You peer at the valve, trying to figure out how it failed. "Hey, fuck, I think I spotted a defect."</p><p>He freezes in his work for a second. "What does that mean for us?"</p><p>"It means I bought these at the same time, from the same place. We better hope they aren't from the same batch, made on the same line, or formed with the same flaws." Fuck fuck fuck.</p><p>"Great. We don't have another one of those?"</p><p>You turn your thoughts over in your head, trying to figure out another way. "Worst case scenario, I can probably rig the one on the water heater to fit this one. We'd just be stuck taking cold showers for a while."</p><p>"Still preferable to the alternative."</p><p>"Just see if that one will work. One problem at a time."</p><p>"It's in. Anything else we need to do?"</p><p>"That should be it. Feel free to turn it on."</p><p>He does. There's a harrowing second where the machine stutters, groans, shakes. Din's hand finds your knee and grips it tight, but he doesn't look away from the heater, at least until its steady hum overtakes the more worrying sounds of the startup.</p><p>"Crises averted," you say, because it feels like the thing to say.</p><p>"For a second there, I thought it was gonna give out on us again," he says, because lately his panic has waxed sharper than yours.</p><p>"I know," you reply. "I've got the bruise on my leg to prove it."</p><p>"Shit, sorry." He takes his hand away, as if he just noticed he put it there in the first place. "Think it'll hold?"</p><p>"Not sure, to be honest. Should probably turn the temp down. Make sure we don't overwork it. And I'm going to take a look at the water heater valve just in case."</p><p>He adjusts the settings, then turns to you. "Later. Come on, let's go get warm." He holds a hand out.</p><p>You nod to the kid. "Take him. I want to stay out here a little longer. Make sure."</p><p>"Maker. First I can't get you out of bed, now I can't get you back in."</p><p>"Probably means you have to work on your pick-up lines."</p><p>"Come on, don't pull this shit right now. You're shaking."</p><p>"So are you."</p><p>"Yeah. And I'm trying to do something about it." He doesn't wait for you to take his hand, opting to wind an arm around you instead and lifts you up himself. "Bed. Now. You promised I could warm up with you when this was done."</p><p>"That was before you gave me caf," you say, but you slide into the bunk anyway.</p><p>"Then lie down next to me and start plotting your union plans." He joins you, adjusts the covers, takes off his gloves, his other extraneous layers that would keep him from your body heat, pushes the helmet away, pulls you closer. The kid goes in between you, soaking up as much warmth as he can get.</p><p>"Fuck. I'm literally in bed with the enemy, aren't I?"</p><p>He's too cold to properly laugh--you both are--but he exhales in a way that tells you your humor is not unappreciated. "Take it up with HR." One of his hands finds the back of your neck, tangles with your hair, nudges your forehead to meet his, to share his breath.</p><p>"Alright, so…who exactly is HR in this scenario?"</p><p>"I don't know. Probably the kid."</p><p>"He can't be HR. I need him to join my union."</p><p>"The ship, then."</p><p>"If the ship is HR, you're definitely screwed. No way she's not gonna be on my side."</p><p>"The ship and I go way back."</p><p>"Yeah. But at the rate we're going, you're going to break my record for most crashes in a single vessel in the same year."</p><p>"And how many is that?"</p><p>"You don't want to know."</p><p>"Hey, c'mon. I let you fly the ship."</p><p>"Circumstances made me the only available pilot. That's not the same thing."</p><p>"Close enough. Come on. What do I have to do to get you to tell me?"</p><p>"Ask me about it next time we're drinking."</p><p>"Which will be, I'm guessing, tomorrow?"</p><p>"After a night like this one? You bet we're drinking tomorrow. Never had my victory shots from the TIEs either."</p><p>"Alright then. It's a date."</p><p>"A date?"</p><p>"Like, a date."</p><p>"Like a date-date? Or just like, a thing that's going to happen tomorrow."</p><p>"Aren't they the same thing?"</p><p>"No, like…I'm trying to figure out if you're asking me out or not."</p><p>"Does it matter? You're holding the kid while I'm holding you. Figured we were kind of past all of that by now."</p><p>"Well, yeah, that's what I thought. But then you just asked me out on a date."</p><p>"It wasn't a--it's not like--fuck, I'm so confused. Am I supposed to ask you out on a date?"</p><p>You are also confused, so you take a minute to exhale slowly, give yourself some time to come up with a reply. "I think…I think I have to check with HR."</p><p>You can almost feel him roll his eyes. "I'd kick you out of this bunk right now if it wasn't absolutely freezing."</p><p>"Uh-huh, sure you would. I don't believe you for one second, Djarin."</p><p>He finds your forehead with his lips, inhales the scent of your hair for a long moment. "Yeah. You shouldn't."</p><p> </p><p>2.</p><p>You're slow the next day. Sluggish. By some miracle, the sound of your bedmate breathing next to you lulled you back to sleep, but nothing could really make up for the hours that you lost. When you wake, the spot beside you is gone, the kid no longer in your arms. It unnerves you.</p><p>You find them in the cockpit, Din looking through flight logs or charting courses, the Kid snuggled in his arms, ears flicking towards your footsteps as you come closer. </p><p>"How long have you been up?"</p><p>He shrugs, gives some noncommittal hum.</p><p>"You should have woken me up. I can keep the kid warm if you need."</p><p>He shakes his head, but still doesn't look up at you. "8 hours of sleep or bust," he says, and it's a joke, but it's tight, stressed, not quite rolling off of him like it normally does. "You needed your rest. I'm fine. I can keep him."</p><p>You glance at the time. It's still reasonably early in your artificial day. Seems like he didn't get much sleep.</p><p>"Everything okay?"</p><p>"Everything's fine." Voice even. Betraying nothing.</p><p>"If you're mad about me not jumping up to fix the heater right away, just say so. I mean, I'm mad too. I would have moved faster if I realized what a big problem--"</p><p>He looks up at you this time, cuts you off. "Hey."</p><p>"What?"</p><p>"Everything's fine." And you wish you could point out exactly the way you know he's lying, but you don't have enough to go on.</p><p>Instead you nod, switch topics, over to business, which normally, inexplicably, calms him down. Din fills you in on the intel he recovered from your stop on Batuu. A name and a general location. He's fairly confident that it won't be too difficult to get this guy, what with his exceptional bounty hunting skills or whatever. Another week or so, and the price on your head will be gone and forgotten. You'll be free of your worry. Free, Din implies, to do whatever you want, go wherever you want to. A part of you wonders if he still thinks you're going to leave.</p><p>You think about prodding him further, but there are more pressing matters. You're nervous about the heater, though it's been holding steady. You talk about taking an unscheduled pit stop somewhere, but decide to wait and see how hard it is to rig the water heater valve. Turns out, not hard at all. You assure him it'll work. You leave it on standby. You make the joint decision to keep going.</p><p>He's quiet for the rest of the day. Not terribly unusual, especially for him, but something's different. It's like he's…it's not a wall that he's put up, not exactly, but he's made himself harder to reach. You try to give him space, busy yourself with other things. Maybe it's the interrupted sleep. Maybe it's the lower temperature you've set the heater to run at. Maybe it's just one of those days where he needs room to breathe. So yeah. You give it to him.</p><p>You spend the day tinkering in the ways that you can. He spends the day doing research on your--his--holopad. Late in the day, you start to hover, not that you mean to, just that his nervous energy is infecting you, and, well, you're bored, and also, it's not every day that they stream semi-pro racing live. You had started a content download earlier that day. It should be done by now.</p><p>"You want something."</p><p>"Wh--what? Want something?" You hadn't thought you were being so obvious.</p><p>"It wasn't a questions."</p><p>You look down at the kid in your lap, cozy in your pretzel legs while you sit on the floor and roll his little silver ball from hand to hand, trying half-heartedly to get him interested. "Does that creep you out as much as it creeps me out?" His little ear twitches. Inconclusive.</p><p>"Just spit it out."</p><p>"Completely eerie, that is."</p><p>He looks up from the holopad, fixes you with a very specific helmet tilt that says quit your bullshit.</p><p>"Okay, okay. Tell me if this would be inconvenient, but, well--remember my friend Keo?"</p><p>"From your squadron. The podracer."</p><p>"Yeah. The podracer. Semi-pro. So I don't normally get a chance to watch them. But there's a showcase race in the inner-rim that was filmed yesterday. Download should be finished."</p><p>"And you want to watch it."</p><p>"Well…yeah."</p><p>"Should have just said so." He closes out of whatever he's working on, stands from his seat at the workbench, and crosses the threshold to where you lean on the wall. You hold out your hand, but he doesn't give you the holopad. Instead, he kicks over a crate in front of you before sliding down to sit down. The tablet goes against the crate, and Din leans a little bit closer to you. He's not wearing the beskar. He's warm.</p><p>It takes you by surprise. "What are you…you want to watch? Thought you weren't interested." </p><p>"Figure you could tell me what this was all about."</p><p>You lean over to queue up the download and play the recording. "Are you sure you know what you're in for?"</p><p>"I caught a race a few years ago somewhere mid-rim. Or, well, caught someone at a race, so I wasn't really paying attention."</p><p>You smile at him, welcome him a little further into your world, hope it will be enough to dissolve whatever tension he's still holding in his shoulders. "That's okay. Kid's been watching with me. We'll keep you in the loop."</p><p>Finally understanding what you've all gathered to watch, the kid in your lap chirps excitedly. Yeah, you love that little womp-rat. You'll make a pilot out of him yet.</p><p>The intro plays. You point out Keo when their ship comes on screen. You explain the rules, the course of the race, why all the pods looks so dramatically different. Before the race gets started, Din asks you a question.</p><p>"So which ones are the X-Wings and which ones are the Y-Wings."</p><p>"Haha, very funny, I know you've seen an X-Wing before, ya dork." Good. Joking. This is normal.</p><p>"Checking to make sure the cold didn't damage your brain function," he says. You stick your tongue out at him. "Did you ever race in one of those things?" Making conversation. Yes. Good.</p><p>"Fuck no. Are you kidding? I begged and begged my mom to let me and she wouldn't have it. Thank the Maker for her good judgement."</p><p>"What do you mean?"</p><p>You give him a wry smile. "You'll see."</p><p>The race starts. It takes all of thirteen seconds before racers 7, 23, and 42 crash into each other and tumble into a rock formation.</p><p>"Holy shit."</p><p>"Yeah. That's why."</p><p>"And you say my profession is needlessly violent."</p><p>"You call that violence. I call that job security." As you speak, the footage shows a couple pit crews running out to recover pilots and machines. "In another life, I'm a pod racing pit mechanic. You could even say it was a plan B if the cantina went under." </p><p>He tries to respond but you very dramatically shush him. "Wait wait wait fuck hang on. Look, holy shit, that's Keo! That's fucking Keo! Fuck yeah!" They're in the lead pack. This early in the race, it doesn't mean much, but you're still proud of your friend, and still excited for the damn good racing you're about to see them do. "Look, kid. That's Keo!"</p><p>Din stays attentive throughout the race, nowhere near as animated or invested in you, but you do see him cringing at some of the more violent crashes. He's otherwise stoic as you root for your friend, as if he doesn't know how to participate. It twists something sad inside of you.</p><p>Keo finishes at a respectable 6th, not quite enough to bump them up to the pros on this race alone, but enough to get their name out there, maybe find some additional sponsorships. You remind yourself to send them a congratulatory ping.</p><p>You shake the kid around like he likes, mimicking all the pod crashes. Din shakes his head, but more in befuddlement than anything else, so you pay him no mind. As the exit commentary plays, you tell Din some stories about all the crazy drifts Keo would pull back with you flew together.</p><p>"So I guess rebel pilot translates well to semi-pro podracer."</p><p>"They were actually a racer first. Took a break to go to war. Can't really win a race if the galaxy falls apart and all. Still just as good when they went back to racing. Better, even. They're gonna make the pro leagues one of these days, just you wait."</p><p>"I'm sure," he says good-naturedly. "What about you? I don't have to worry about you running off and trying that now that your mom can't stop you, do I?"</p><p>"I'd be lying if I said I never thought about it, but it wouldn't be the best idea. There's only a handful of humans who have even lasted more than a race or two, never mind winning any of them. We just aren't wired that way, I guess. Maybe if I was a force-sensitive, like Keo."</p><p>"Force-sensitive?"</p><p>"Yeah. Like Keo. Did I not mention that?"</p><p>"What is that, a pod racing term?"</p><p>"Oh. No, it's like--a bigger thing, I think. Keo explains it better. They said they're not even that force-sensitive, but it was still really impressive. They could feel things ahead of time, when we were flying. Like, knew there were ships coming before they got picked up on radar. Good at predicting the paths of space debris and avoiding it. Had a knack for aiming without the target-lock on. That kind of stuff. Just really in-tune with the rest of the galaxy, I guess."</p><p>"Sounds useful."</p><p>"That's not even the half of it. Keo said they'd heard about force-sensitives that could move objects with their minds…and…wait…wait just one fucking second." Something snaps together in your brain. You look down at the kid in your lap. He looks up at you with a wicked grin on his face, as if he knows something. "You said…you said you were trying to get him back to his people. You didn't say anything about the fucking Jedi."</p><p>The helmet tilts. You interpret it as confusion.</p><p>"The Jedi, Din. This little bugger is a force user. I didn't connect the dots until just now."</p><p>He's still, unsurprised by the kid's connection to the Jedi. "The force? That's what that's called."</p><p>"Yeah."</p><p>"Tell me everything you know."</p><p>Admittedly, it's not much, but you give him the info you can. Din tells you he thought the Jedi were myths before he was tasked to find one himself. Didn't think to mention it because it felt so outlandish, was focusing on finding more Mandalorians first. You tell him about how you hadn't believed either, not until you enlisted and hung out with some fellow pilots who had flown in the clone wars. Told stories about the Jedi, in tones so haunting that you knew better than to disbelieve the legends. You never thought you would meet one yourself. Never mind hold one in your lap and tease him for his stupid adorable ears.</p><p>"He's not one yet, though. At least, that's what I understand. He needs to be trained."</p><p>"So he's a Jedi-in-training?"</p><p>"I don't think he even counts as that," Din clarifies. "But I don't know. I was told he's 50 years old. Could have gotten up to anything in that time."</p><p>"Maker. Remind me to get his skincare routine."</p><p>"Rolling around in the dirt," he deadpans. You snort, then tickle the weird little Jedi baby mercilessly on his left foot, just how he likes it. </p><p>"So all this time I thought we were going to stumble on a planet of beings just like him."</p><p>"Yeah, sorry. I should have clued you in sooner, but I honestly didn't think it would matter."</p><p>"I guess it doesn't in the long-run."</p><p>"What about your friend? Could they have any leads?"</p><p>"Doubtful. They never got any type of training, just learned on their own. I'll send them a message to ask though. Can't hurt." </p><p>Din nods, points to the holopad, and asks if you're done with it. When you answer in the affirmative, he picks it up and goes back to the workbench to finish whatever he was working on before, as if this last conversation was a reminder that there was more to the galaxy than the lifeforms in his ship. Back to work. Back to the tension and the stress that has him stiff. Whatever it was that was bothering him, it's more than a little podracing or a ticklish baby can fix.</p><p> </p><p>"Something's on your mind."</p><p>It's later now. The kid is in bed. He's back in the cockpit, feet on the dash, staring into space. You'd almost think he was resting if it wasn't for the nervous way his fingers drummed together.</p><p>You're standing at the top of the ladder, a little more than halfway up, trying to see if he'll bite the bait you've set out. You know he heard you. You know he's ignoring you. You're tired of it. So you say again, "There's something on your mind."</p><p>A pause. When he does answer you, he does it without turning around. "What do you mean?"</p><p>"It wasn't a question."</p><p>"And?"</p><p>"Something's on your mind," you say again, even more pointedly. You climb the last few rungs, cross the distance in a few strong steps, lean on the armrest of your usual seat, and look down at him, see the ways in which he is still avoiding your gaze. "And you're not telling me what it is."</p><p>"You aren't asking."</p><p>"You know I am. You know that's what this is."</p><p>"That's a broad question, then." Pointlessly difficult. You should have expected this.</p><p>"Maker, Din. Do I need to narrow it down for you? Do you need a bottle and a couple shots between us before it's safe to pry?"</p><p>"You'd still need to beat my reaction time," he points out, but this time he tilts the helmet towards you, adds an inflection of humor, maybe an attempt at misdirecting your questions.</p><p>You ignore him. "You said something the other week about not stepping on my toes. And I appreciate it. And I'm trying to do the same for you. But this is a long trip and a small ship. If you're going to hold me at arm's length, can you at least tell me why?"</p><p>He looks down. He sighs, a heavy one, laced with resignation, or maybe frustration. He looks up at you again, says firmly, "That's not what I'm doing."</p><p>"Then what's going on? Is it the bounty on my head? Or, what, are you nervous that after all of this I'm just going to leave when--"</p><p>"No," he says, firm again, but quickly, as if he doesn't even want you to finish the thought out loud. "Look, just…fuck, I'll tell you, but I need you to not freak out on me."</p><p>"You know I can keep my cool."</p><p>"Can being the operative word." He shifts in his seat, rises, turns so that he's sitting on the armrest instead, head more level with yours. At the very least, you have his full attention now, and you're grateful. "You did a great job of cursing me out after the Crest crashed."</p><p>"Only because I could have landed her better." It's childish, but it's a point you won't let go.</p><p>He nods, a concession, or at least an act to placate you. "Just don't yell at me, okay? You're not going to like this. Hell, I don't like it either."</p><p>"Will you just tell me already?"</p><p>He pauses, holds your gaze, and you know it's just the same helmet you always see, but his attention feels more intense now, a weight blanketing your conversation. "Last night," he says. "The heater," as if he needs to clarify. "Plan A was to fix it myself. Plan B was to get your help. I had a Plan C if that failed."</p><p>"Okay, and?"</p><p>"I wasn't sure if we had the parts. I know you tell me when you pick something up, but I can't keep track of it all, and your way of organizing the storage is different. I couldn't find it. Didn't think we had a spare."</p><p>"So you're mad about the way I sort things?"</p><p>"No, Maker, of course not. I told you. I'm not mad at you. Just listen. Before I woke you up, I checked to see where the nearest pit stop was."</p><p>"Yeah. You said. And it was like 8 hours away."</p><p>"I didn't think we had a spare. I thought we weren't going to make it. That’s why I had a plan C."</p><p>"Which was?"</p><p>You count the breaths he takes until he finally tells you, heavy in his chest, as if there is lead in his lungs. "Plan C was figuring out a way to convince you to get into the carbonite with the kid."</p><p>And now you understand. You finally get where his head has been at all day. And even as your heart fills with understanding, your muscles tense with the fight building in you. The calm you promised him vanishes. "No. No way. And just--what, you thought I would leave you out here to freeze? No, fuck that. We would have found another way."</p><p>"There wasn't another way. Trust me. I've thought about it all day."</p><p>You shake your head as if that will shake loose the rock that sits in your stomach. "No. No, we would have found something else. I wouldn't have let you."</p><p>"I know you wouldn't have. At least not at first. I figured I would try to use the kid to convince you. Your instinct is to protect him. That might have worked. Thought about lying to you too. Telling you I'd be freezing myself in the next one. But you're smart enough to know that the safety switch wouldn't let me. Or, fuck, maybe you'd know a workaround for disabling the mechanism without ruining the machine. But that probably wouldn't matter much either, when it came down to it. I knew you wouldn't go in without a fight. So I was prepared for that too."</p><p>"Fucking hell," you curse, realizations pouring in one after another. Your emotions come to you in waves. You have trouble picking one to focus on. He would have frozen you in carbonite so you would live. He would have frozen you in carbonite and died. He would have frozen you in carbonite without your consent. He would have fought you tooth and nail. He would have overpowered you. He would have won. He would have held you down and hit the button and watched your struggles freeze in real time, just as he had done with so many of the bounties that came before you. He would have hit the distress button and prayed that someone would come in time. He would have done everything in his power to stave off the cold, now even harder without your warmth. He would have frozen, eventually, hoping that someone would find you in the carbonite days or weeks or years later, hoping that they would be friend and not foe, that he wasn't making you an easy meal for any bounty hunter who caught wind of the price on your head. He would have pushed you into the frame and frozen you and taken every punch and kick you'd throw his way, every protest you yelled at him. He would have saved your life. He would have ruined it in the same instant. </p><p>"You know I'd never do anything like that unless there was no other choice. You know that, right? Listen to me, I thought we were fucked. I didn't know you'd picked up a spare, or that you knew how to rig the--"</p><p>"No. No. Shut up. Shut up, Djarin. <em>You</em> listen to <em>me</em>." It's irrational, the tone you're using, the steel in your voice, the anger in your jaw, the step you take toward him, closing in, aggressive in a way you don't understand. "Listen to me when I tell you I will find a way to hold this ship together with my <em>bare fucking hands</em> before I let you do any sort of self-sacrificial bullshit that has you putting my life above yours." One hand lands on the one remaining armrest in between you, the other jabs him hard in the shoulder when you say, "You don't get to die for me. You don't get to save my life like that. You don't get to make that fucking choice."</p><p>Quick as lighting, so fast you don't even see it, he takes the hand at his shoulder in his, pulls you closer, pulls you off balance, steadies you with a hand at your jaw, grip just shy of bruising. His voice is as low and reckless as you've ever heard him when he speaks, spitting the words through the modulator. "That's not your order to give. If you think there's even a chance that I'll let you get hurt--get <em>killed</em>--on my watch when there's something I can do it about, you're wrong. I will protect your life in whatever way the shitty hand we're dealt demands it, and there is not a <em>blessed</em> thing in this universe that will stop me. That includes you."</p><p>One breath. Two breaths. Three. He doesn't let go of your hand, your jaw, doesn't even flinch as he lets his words sink in, the lengths he would go to protect you, the implications this has for your relationship, the way it still leaves you blind with fury, even as your fight melts away.</p><p>"You would have left me behind. You would have made me figure out the next steps alone. Fight for the kid by myself. Leave me alone in this galaxy all over again."</p><p>"And it would have fucking shattered me." A shuttering breath, unhinged and troubled and honest. "But at least you'd still be alive."</p><p>You're still again, the both of you. Each too stubborn to back down. And then you break. You can't hold it in any more, your unsteady breath, the pain in your throat, the way his declaration hurts you deep. You bite your lip but you can't hide the water that gathers in your eyes. In the next instant, his grip on you softens. He pulls you closer. He makes a shelter of himself.</p><p>You want to say something. To tell him he's stupid, or otherwise thank him. You want to push him away or cuff him to your side. You want to scream at him or whisper apologies for the choices he was nearly faced with. You do none of those things. You hide your face in his neck, cry silently, heartache visible only in the way your shoulders shake as you hold back your sobs. He pulls you even closer, shifts your bodies until you're on his lap, holds his arms around you, but says nothing. Not a single word.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You don't know how you fell asleep. You don't know how he managed to climb down the ladder and get you in the bunk without waking you up. You wake and he's there, and he's warm beside you, and for a moment you can convince yourself that all of this is a nightmare that will never come to pass.</p><p>You try to drift off, try for at least a minute or two to get back to sleep, but it's no good. You slip out of the bunk, careful not to wake him. You slide a carbonite pod out of storage and lay it down on the floor as quietly as you can. You get your tools out, start tinkering. You figure out a way to disable the safety mechanism, but the machine shorts itself out the moment you do. A failsafe. A failure to keep him safe. The opposite of safe. A failure.</p><p>He finds you like this minutes later, centered in the scattered mess of your tools and the carbonite pod you ruined, the eye of a hurricane that hurts too much. He finds you like this, knees drawn to chest, head in your hands, silent sobs wracking your body once more. He pulls you to his chest and holds you, waits until you've worn yourself out a second time.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>3.</p><p>The mess is gone when you wake. Tools put away. Carbonite pod slid back into storage. Like it never happened.</p><p>There are three left, but you only have two more chances to get it right. If you break two, there's only one left. Scarcity is a problem you don't know how to solve.</p><p>He sees you looking at them, working the problem in your head, and pushes a warm mug of broth in your hands, a distraction. "Leave it," he says, because the thoughts you're thinking aren't healthy. And he'd rather not lose anymore pods.</p><p>But then, you could break them all. A different kind of solution.</p><p>The kid spends his day bouncing between you, aware something has changed but unable to articulate any questions about what, why. He's cute, damnit! Why isn't anyone laughing or smiling at him like normal?</p><p>The kid. if you broke them all, you'd be dooming him, the little one. You couldn't. That's not something you want to live with, even as you're dying.</p><p>You run diagnostics on the ship, not because you need to--you've kept these scans on a schedule, careful as always--but because you are desperate for reassurance that everything is okay. Once or twice Din comes up to check in, to pass you a ration bar. He says things like there's no reason to worry now, that everything's okay, that it won't have to ever come to that, but they're promises he can't keep, and you both know this. He tells you to stop your worrying. You ask him if he's managed to stop his own. He's honest with you. He tells you he hasn't.</p><p>"I shouldn't have said anything."</p><p>"I didn't give you a choice. And besides, I'm glad you did. I deserve to know if you're ready to do something like that. It's only fair."</p><p>He doesn't answer. He doesn't agree.</p><p>"I'm not mad at you. You should know that. I was for a little while, but I'm not anymore. What I'm mad about is the fact that you're right. I've been thinking all day. There's no other solution. We would have needed a miracle."</p><p>"We got one. Someone kept their head on straight throughout our tour of the galaxy and stocked up on spare parts."</p><p>"That's not a miracle, Din. That's basic maintenance. Maker, what are you going to do if I'm not here?"</p><p>"You planning on going somewhere?"</p><p>"You know what I mean."</p><p>"Someday we won't constantly be on the run anymore. It'll be different. Easier."</p><p>You've heard promises like that before, have seen monuments built in the name of "someday," a shaky foundation that will bring the galaxy down on your head sooner or later. You don't trust "someday" anymore.</p><p>"The valve is holding. You made another one if that fails. We don't have to think about it anymore."</p><p>"Easier said than done."</p><p>He disappears into the hull, but not before placing a hand on your shoulder and squeezing twice. You don't respond. You don't know how. You keep looking through the ships systems, try to find anything you've missed.</p><p>It's after the second pass, hours later, that you finally internalize where you are in the galaxy, understand your course, understand how close you are to a secret you're supposed to carry to your grave.</p><p>There's a spot you like to go to, every now and then, when you're in the area. You're close. </p><p>You know it doesn't make sense, will only prolong your stay in space when everything is screaming at you to get where you're going as soon as possible so you can check the ship over from top to bottom with the means to fix anything that's wrong.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>You look for Din to let him know, if only so he can brace himself for the shift in speed--you're not asking for permission, you're doing this whether he likes it or not--but he's asleep, inside the bunk without you, early for him. You wonder how much rest he's lost out on in the past two days.</p><p>You'll ask him later. For now, it works in your favor.</p><p>You don't think about how much trouble you'll be in. Trouble from him, trouble from your former superiors. It doesn't matter. It feels right. It feels like the thing to do. </p><p>The controls are sturdy in your hands as you direct the ship to fall out of hyperspace, change course, set off in a different direction. This first deceleration doesn't wake him, but the second one does, the last one it takes before you're there. Before you're looking at familiar sight. </p><p>"Cyare?" His voice is sleepy, calling to you from down below, but still quiet, mindful of the kid.</p><p>"Up here," you say. And then you tack on, "Don't be mad."</p><p>"What--is something wrong? Why'd we slow down?" His voice is closer now. He's making is way up the ladder.</p><p>"It's worth it, I promise."</p><p>"What are you--?"</p><p>And then he's speechless, breath caught in his throat as he looks at the same sight you've taken in five or six different times in your life now.</p><p>You look over your shoulder, see the way he's struck dumb, see the way the clouds of dust and color reflect off the helmet. You wave him closer. "Come on."</p><p>He takes the steps, stops at the back of your chair, visor still fixed on the landscape in front of him. "What is it?"</p><p>"First of all, it's classified. You can't tell anyone."</p><p>"Rebel's honor," he says.</p><p>"You can't say that. Not a rebel."</p><p>"Then take my word as a Mandalorian. I'll swear it on the Creed."</p><p>You nod, satisfied, turn your head back to the landscape in front of you, tell him the story. "This is the Ringali Nebula. There used to be a rebel base here. Important one. I was stationed on it for a while. We were building a weapon. Called it the Starhawk. Cobbled it together from the remnants of an Imperial Light Cruiser we hijacked. The Imps didn't like that we stole the pieces, so it needed somewhere safe to hide. Inside a nebula like this was a good a place as any."</p><p>You watch the dust swirl around, the greens and purples, the tinges of blue, the way the light bounces off, the shrapnel and carnage around it, magnificent and brutal.</p><p>"You're looking at its bones now. This place is a graveyard. In more ways than one."</p><p>"What happened?"</p><p>"Empire found out our location. Tried to gut our base. Succeeded, in some ways, but they evacuated in time. Most everyone stationed on the base got out."</p><p>"And you?"</p><p>"Defending. Y-Wing, of course. Somewhere in all of this mess is the right fender I lost during the battle."</p><p>"Was this the 30 hour fight you were telling me about?"</p><p>"No, that was a couple years before this. Probably the reason I got assigned to this mission with Vanguard. But this one was quick. Over fast. The evacuation anyway. But then we had to destroy the Starhawk. Some TIEs disabled it, so we couldn't use it to blast our way out, but we didn't want the Empire to get their hands on it either. Blew the thing to pieces and took out another Light Cruiser and a few Imp frigates. Got the engineers to safety so they could make another one someday. Overall, not a terrible trade. And it left us with this."</p><p>"It's…beautiful."</p><p>"Yeah," you say. "Beautiful and terrible."</p><p>He slides a hand down your back, nudges you forward in the pilot's chair. He slides in behind you. Arms come around to hold you in place, as if you'd ever go anywhere else.</p><p>"You come here often?"</p><p>"That a bad pickup line?"</p><p>"You know what I mean," he says, exasperated almost, but you can hear him hold back a smile.</p><p>"When I'm in the area. It's just…nice to remember. I lost a friend here."</p><p>"I…fuck…I'm sorry."</p><p>"It's okay. I mean, it hurt. It sucked that I couldn't do anything. But in the end, she went out the way she wanted to. On her own terms. It's all any of us can ask for. And she got a hell of a resting place out if. Part of the stars now."</p><p>"Is this where you tell me you want the same thing? An end on your own terms?"</p><p>"That's not...I mean, yeah, I want the same thing if I'm lucky enough to get it, but that's not why I brought you here. I'm not trying to make a point or anything. Not right now."</p><p>"Then why bring me here?"</p><p>It's a fair question. "I don't know. Sometimes it's nice to just look at something beautiful and forget all the rest."</p><p>He leans his visor against the side of your head, a knowing pressure. You say your next words without thinking. "You should take that off."</p><p>And then you feel him stiffen, and you curse yourself inwardly. You've never, not once, asked him to remove his helmet. Not directly. It's always been on his own initiative.</p><p>"Shit, sorry. I just mean…there's a color filter, right? You should see this with your own eyes. It's just…better that way. If you want, I'll get the blindfold and--"</p><p>He squeezes his arms around you, just a touch, stops you before you can say anything else. "It's okay, I understand. Just--eyes forward, yeah?"</p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, of course. Rebel's honor and all."</p><p>One hand leaves you so he can slip the visor off. You know it makes a difference judging by the way he sucks a breath in, chest expanding sharply against your back.</p><p>Minutes pass. You watch the clouds swirl together. At one point, he reaches around you and hits a button on the control panel. The lights inside the cockpit go out. Darkness surrounds you, enables you to focus further on the clouds, the wreckage. In this way, you sit vigil for a long, long time.</p><p>He's the one to disturb the silence. "Do you miss it?"</p><p>"Flying?"</p><p>"In the war, yeah."</p><p>It takes you awhile to figure out an answer.</p><p>"Saying I miss the war sounds stupid. It was awful. A lot of people lost their lives. And we both know the war isn't really over. So I won't say I miss it."</p><p> One hand comes up to trace your temple, brush your hair away from your eyes. "But you miss flying."</p><p>"Yeah. I miss it a lot."</p><p>He traces your jaw, makes you shiver. You try to understand the nerves in his voice, his hesitancy. "Would you…would you ever go back to it?" </p><p>You want to say no. It should come easily. You lost too many people. Gave away too many years of your life. Caused too much hurt. But there was always some part of the fight that called to you, rang in your bones.</p><p>When your silence goes on irredeemably long, you settle on, "If I had to. If there was a way I could help. If the fight was straightforward enough, and I knew I was doing more good than harm. Then yeah. I'd go back."</p><p>No answer from him. You wonder what he was hoping to hear.</p><p>"And if I'm being honest," you say before you can stop yourself, "there's nothing like the rush of taking out the turrets on a Star Destroyer. Literally nothing."</p><p>His breath comes like a nervous laugh. "You're insane."</p><p>"Hey, it's safer than pod racing."</p><p>"I'm pretty sure that's not true."</p><p>"No gravity to deal with, at least. Well, most of the time."</p><p>"Uh-huh. Sure. I bet that makes all the difference when the TIEs are at your back." And this his mouth is on your neck, and you forget what you were talking about entirely.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Din hadn't known, hadn't realized, couldn't have. There was no way for him to understand that he was ready to trade his life for yours until the moment the choice was presented to him. And then there was only certainty. He didn't question it. Didn't need to.</p><p>He doesn't now, either, even with the pain it has caused you, even with the way you were so ready to fight him, when you went so far to take his throwaway misdirect as a personal challenge. Ruined one of his carbonite pods. If it were anyone else, he'd be furious. But it's you. So he doesn't spend a single fucking second caring, except for all of the ways that it hurts you.</p><p>It's on his mind now as he looks down at you, back on the floor where he lays you down, eyes closed--the blindfold too far away, his want for you too urgent, his trust in you too great. He doesn't play games with himself, convince himself that with the lights in the cockpit off, it's dark enough. He knows it's not. The nebula illuminates enough, but it's precisely what he wants to see--your skin, bathed in light, colored by a battlefield, touched by something so much greater than him. In this way, he worships you, watches you, prays that this image of you will never leave him, even if you, someday, do.</p><p>He removes your layers, one by one, watches your skin react to the chill of the ship, warms you with his own body as he watches you breathe, exhales sharp and wanting. He doesn't get to see you like this. Normally you're both in the dark, both without your sight. It's not fair to you, he knows, to take something from you when he isn't able to give the very same thing, but he tries to make it up to you with his tongue, his lips, his touch. And then he hovers over you, nose touching yours, and he thinks about all the ways you could ruin him in an instant if you only dared to open your eyes. There's a terrifying second where he thinks he wants this, wants you to see him, wants you to break him and all that he is, and so he stays there, mumbles praises or promises as his hands wander but his eyes stay glued to yours.</p><p>And then the fear creeps in, the realization of the fine edge that he's walking, the panic, and without knowing why, his hand shoots back to your face and covers your eyes, firmer than he meant to.</p><p>It jolts you, presses some of his own panic into your skin. You gasp, in surprise this time. "Din, I wasn't--I'd never--"</p><p>"I know. I know. Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't know--" he's breathing hard, spooked by his own thoughts, ruining this, fuck, he's messing all of this up. "It's fine. I know you wouldn't. I just--"</p><p>"We can stop. We don't have to do this right now."</p><p>But he doesn't want that, doesn't want to stop. "No, it's okay." He slides his hand from your face, gentle once more, tries to kiss the sting of his fear away even as you try to ease him back.</p><p>"Din, hey, listen. I can't see you right now. I can't look at you. If something's wrong, I need you to tell me. Please."</p><p>And it's shit like this that does it, things like this, like you trying to tend to his comfort at all times, even after all you've seen of him, the grit and the grime and the anger, the hunter, the killer. A couple nights ago, he almost had to straddle you a different way, hold your arms down for a different reason, hurt you by trying not to have you hurt. He'd told you as much. And yet you'd still let him touch you, see you, like this.</p><p>"Din," you say again. Your eyebrows are knitting together in that way they do when you're confused, or maybe frustrated, but your voice is soft and gentle. "Din, please. Tell me what you're thinking."</p><p>He's thinking so many things, so many damn things that he's not ready to share with you. He's thinking about how easy the choice would be, your life for his, thinking about what that means for him, thinking about how there's never been anyone in the galaxy that he would make that choice for, save for the kid, his foundling. He's thinking about how a choice like that shouldn't have to hurt this way, especially when he never really made it, might never have to. But he knows, now, and you do too, and knowing is a different type of burden.</p><p>"You could make it easier on me," he says, but it doesn't make sense to you, not then. Your heads aren't at the same place. You try to move away, thinking you've done something wrong, but he holds you there with a gentle grip, dips his forehead to touch yours, tries again. "It's not fair to you. The carbonite. I know it's not. But I couldn't let you--I can't let you die if I  can do something about it. And the kid. He'd need someone. I swore I would take care of him. It would be the last way I would know how."</p><p>"Din, I don't know what you're asking me to do." And now your voice is pained, hurt, and he hates that he's the one that caused that, but he doesn't know how to dance around this anymore.</p><p>"I'm not asking. This isn't a choice for you. I promised you my protection, and I'm not budging on that. My word is my bond. But you could make it easier. I don't want to have to fight you."</p><p>"I don't want that either."</p><p>"Then don't make me. If I'm asking you something, then I'm asking for that. Don't make me. Don't let that be the last thing you know from me."</p><p>"No, fuck, I can't. I--" your throat tightens, and he can almost see you kick yourself inwardly, determined not to cry in front of him for the third time in the last day.</p><p>He shushes you, tries to calm you down, rubs his thumbs in circles on your shoulders, as if that will fix anything. "I know it's not fair to you. I know it'll hurt. But you could make it easier. You could go willingly."</p><p>You shake your head, but he ignores you.</p><p>"It's too much to ask. I know I have no right to ask it of you. But I'm asking anyway. Please, cyare."</p><p>But you just shake your head and wind your legs around his hips and roll him over in that way that you can't get enough of, and he watches you ride him, watches you paint his chest with your fingernails, and marvels in all the things you can make him feel, all of the ways you reach him through his skin and his heart, and he knows that this is it for him. You are the end. He's found so much more than he could ever want, ever deserve, ever--</p><p>Ever love.</p><p>You are so much more than he ever believed he could be capable of loving, but he loves you all the same, feels for you in a way that could only be love, because it hurts, and it's wonderful, and it's a pain he never wants to stop inflicting on himself.</p><p>How fucked up is that?</p><p>He doesn't tell you, though, doesn't want to say the words, can't burden you more than he already has with this knowledge, this knowing that neither of you can come back from. He takes what you give him, rolls you over when you're giving too much, fights for the final say in the things that will make you feel good, the things that will keep you alive and wanting. You come once and you scatter like dust. You come twice and you gather yourself together again. You're so close to a third--he can feel it, the way you're shaking, but he can't hold himself back, so he finishes you off with his mouth, determined, as if this was a penance. You find completion, and he guides you through it, rocks you through the waves, and when you return to yourself once more, he knows he's never seen you so vulnerable and daring and heartbreakingly bold. It's like staring into a sun.</p><p>The Crest drifts across the stars, around the nebula, and he drifts inside of it, on top of you, his head on your chest to keep you warm, covered, safe where he can see and hold you. You stay in this place, share in the rising and falling of each other's chest, here in this graveyard, where he too will leave behind a life he once had lived, where he too will give a piece of himself to rest in this place. There is the person he was before you, and the person you have helped him to become, the one who will do whatever it takes to earn the things you have given him. He'll leave the other him behind.</p><p>For a while he thinks you're sleeping, or close to it, as your fingers nestle in his curls, as he listens to the drum of your heard beneath his ear, but then you speak, whisper into this time that passes as night. </p><p>"I'll try."</p><p>And it's his turn to not understand your meaning, not be able to place your words. He picks his head up to look at you, searches you face, eyes still closed because of course they are. And then it sinks in, and his heart spasms, and he has to make sure. "Mesh'la?"</p><p>"I can't promise. I just--I can't. But I'll try. If it'll make it easier. I'll go willingly."</p><p>And he can't explain exactly why it sparks a prick of tears in his eyes, but he's grateful you'll never have to know, never understand how many times he came close to losing it these past few days.</p><p>He kisses you deep and slow, a silent thanks that will never be enough. And he lies with you there, takes you in for all that you are, all the ways it humbles him. </p><p>He feels so incredibly small in this galaxy that has taken so much from him, and so incredibly grateful all the same.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, UM, the part where she's up late trying to rig the carbonite pods literally makes me SO SAD and I know I'm literally the one that made this happen but uh @ ME, EXCUSE YOU THAT WAS RUDE.</p><p> </p><p>One or two chapters left folks. But worry not! I've got one or two chapters of the next installment sketched out too, plus, yeah, bonus features baby.</p><p>P.S. Din Djarin respects your pronouns!</p>
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